Wishing God Were More Chatty

Sometimes I think that someone who knows God better than I do should be doing the writing.

It ought to be someone on a first name basis, don’t you think? I mean, really, someone that discusses Curry versus LeBron or Bernie versus Hilary with the Almighty ought to be writing books and poetry and posts. Most of my time with God is spent waiting.

I had the same problem with my dad.

When I was a teenager, conflict and trouble with my parents was pretty much a daily event. My dad was an extraordinary introvert. “Shy” does not begin to describe how inward he was. Dad was the kind of guy everyone respected immensely because of his integrity, and because he rarely said anything in the midst of a public discussion if or when he did, everyone listened intently.

But my dad rarely initiated a conversation. When there was something he wanted to talk to me about he would come into my room and sit on the edge of the bed. I would likely be at my desk with my back to him and eventually have to turn around and ask him what he wanted. There were times I tried to wait him out so that he had to start the conversation, but I was never able to wait long enough.

Most of the time I wait around for God like that, impatient and exasperated.

When God speaks it is usually in a dream, a still small voice when I least expect it, an “ah ha!” out of the blue, or the voice that reverberates in the sensation of awe. It is just not conversational. I talk, plead, hassle, push and nag but nothing comes back until and unless the Creator-Of-All-That-Is has something to say – likely calibrated to what I can stand or be able to hear.

I was thinking about this the other day as I was walking the dog (also a creature of few words, though an endless bounty of gestures). I was grumpy about it in fact, and complaining to God in my Tevia-voice that someone else should be doing all this writing about the sacred that hides in plain sight. “Pick someone you actually talk to,” I said with a snarky huff. “You need a Mother Teresa or somebody,” I sniffed flippantly.

“Oh,” I heard myself say, “Mother Teresa had the same problem with you that I do.” Then I thought about the amazing things she did while waiting for you to respond and I was immediately humbled. “Right,” I said. So I still write.