I could scratch at the deepest recesses of my soul, and the measly bits I scrape up would not suffice as a gift to You. And though Your overwhelming presence rains down like that day I was caught in the mountains, sometimes we’re just too dry to feel the drops. I remember running by the lake through the path with trees all around, wiping the water from my eyelashes as it poured down on me. The surface of the mountain pond was in motion as a billion raindrops hit it at once, over and over again.
You surround me like that wall of mist that rose out of the Cape Cod forest as the stillicides fell through the tall green trees in the midsummer storm. The warm wet wetness fell down on us as we bounded across inches-deep mud, rejoicing in the storm’s gift. In the stillness, when our legs stopped moving, the battalion of raindrops sounded off across the wood, bouncing off the leaves and falling all around us. I have never been anywhere as much as I was there that day. I have never been so inside of a place and time.
And though I’ve never been outside the reach of your arm, I feel like I have wandered off and sniffed the poisonous daisies of my own desires. It is as if the starving spirit within me has chosen to consume the imaginary cakes my childhood friends and I conjured up in our minds, rather than accept the banquet You freely present me. Allow me once again to enter into that sweet communion.