Dear God

Dear God,

I got your message. Again. I know that you receive all of mine, but you acted quickly this time. I like that. A LOT.

The music that came was, of course, perfectly timed and I swear that I am beginning to believe that even during the fund-raising drive these radio announcers have a direct connection to you also. I remember quite clearly the season last year when this music was played, and it was to my delight then, just as it was today.

Speaking of time (whether I am writing, thinking, “praying”, or musing, I think of it as a conversation, never a monologue), well, what can I say if a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years a day to you? I like the latter, but the former drives me bonkers. Not mad. I have not once been mad about it all; I will not allow it. Bonkers is enough!

Your time frame is satisfactory and your terms are reasonable as well. I am making a joke here of course, and I hope you are laughing. I love that you do laugh. To me, it sounds like thunder, or the wind, or a sweet serenade, or sometimes a hushed whisper, or a bird calling, and I think puttering in the kitchen or sorting socks could at least bring a smile. And some other sounds that I can imagine, well, I believe you delight in them as well, and I hope you laugh out loud. I laughed too when I got your message.

Back to the humor, though, Yeah, satisfactory and reasonable are really fine words for me to send in reply to you of all people beings, huh? I can almost see you smirking. The time frame really is fine, however. The terms? Let’s see, I give you all of my life, and you return it to me as you would have it, full of joy and wonder, even treasure. And I am still me. Sounds really good. I’m in.

Oh, and thank you for making me a man. I like it, and if you had gone the other way at the last minute (how many years is that in your time, btw?), then it would have muddled things. Seriously, seriously mucked them up. So, thanks. It has worked out well, it seems to me, and I think I am not alone in that.

Well, I know that you know that I know that you know all of this, but it feels somehow satisfying to get it out in the open with words.

On a deeper note, one of the things that I love most about you is your mystery. I was listening to Bartók again last night, this time his Concerto for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta. I closed my eyes in the candlelight and oh, your mystery delighted me so. The music evoked that, eliciting a feeling of your mystery, the unknown.

Your mystery is different—this time—and I can sense that it is, in part, very knowable. You do want to be known. So do I.

It is as if I am reaching out almost blindly, but in trust, as a child in the dark responding to his father’s voice. My fingers land lightly against you, and I take a step toward you and reach. Beyond. There is more. I reach further, and I touch you touching me. More, there is more. I reach, stretching, and my fingertips barely graze you, and you are so close. More. I use the back of my fingers now, gently, to brush across, trying to perceive every texture. The music is textured like that, and I inhale its scent and it is familiar and completely foreign at once. Still, there is more and I reach further, deeper, and you are there and everywhere. It is in you that I live and listen and love and move and am loved and am moved. You speak to me of your mystery, and I reach, was/am/will ever be reaching. And yet . . . there is more.

Thank you so much for everything. You know that I mean everything.

From all of my heart, and with all my soul, mind, and strength,

Your son, Timothy


Photograph “Lux Mysterium” © 2018 Timothy Waugh