A Talk with God

By Emmanuelle

 Ten days before the birth of His Son, she writes of a talk with Him who sent down His Son. Too, she is back to the count of one. Like: Oh, gosh. Oh, God. Oh, hush.

There are times, you see, when it seems one is left with no choice but to turn one’s back to the sun. From what is sane, to what is not. Or from what is not sane, to what is. Take a pick.

It seems she had seen and she had heard and she had felt too much. They were not hers, these wounds that do not heal, but just the same, she is scratched. She is scarred. She is marked.

So, she seeks the path where the sun sees less. She feels the need to veil her thoughts, her heart. From the glare of the big, too good eye.

She must take a grip.  Stitch all the loose threads back. Or lose the threads that should not be there. What was whole had frayed. Or what was frayed had webbed a whole. Take a pick.

(Her priest may know best. Her faith may have swayed.)         

She looks up to the eye that seeks her out.

She shouts: I see you.

It seems to wink: I see you, too.

She raises a fist:  Keep out of my thoughts.

It seems to raise a brow:  I am out! I just peeped in!

She thinks: I lost it. I talk to the sun!

The same voice answers:  You have not lost it. You do not talk to the sun.                                             

You talk to me. 

She whirls. She sees no one, but she hears a song in the air. Leaves sigh as they stir, or as they free fall. The birds chirp. They turn their eyes, their beaks to one place. The space where she stands, or walks, or tips on her toes.

She thinks: If it were a ghost who does not cringe at the light of day, if it were a man who wishes to do me harm, if it were a bear where there are no bears, I would have been warned. My neck hairs would have stood on their ends, my heart would have pumped hard, I would have ran, and I am so fast at that.  

 She thinks: If I keep quiet, and not think, or move the least bit, it might go its way. And so she hushed, and so she froze.

I am still here, the voice says. And the birds, and the leaves, and the trees seem to hear as well. They seem to nod the voice is right. The chirps grow loud, the leaves stir a way for more light of the sun to shine through, and the leaves hum a string of clear notes to the ear.

May I ask who you may be? She finds she need not speak the words. Her thoughts hurl them through the air, and she hears the words as if she spoke.

I am He whom you prayed hard to at the dark of the night, and more, at times like this. I know you, my child. I made you. You think you can hide from me the chinks that start to chip at your faith? You make me sad, yet you make me smile. You might as well be the bear  that you fear, to hide from me through the shades of these trees. The noise that you make, you woke up the birds! They called on to me, make her quit, shhh her quick!!

And He laughs out His mirth like the Klaus of the myth!    

She goes hmph. She clamps tight her lips. As said, there is no need to speak. Just think the words, He hears. Just think the sights, He sees.

So she tells Him: You see, God, as I am sure you see. Each year, at this time, I make the walls of the hut to house the Babe that is Your Son. Each time I do, I smile for the Babe. Four months from now, I weave the palm to wave to Your Son on his way to His death on the Cross. And each time the palm cuts my palm, I cry not for the slash of the cut, but for Him Who was once the Babe in the hut.

I try not to sin too much. I think there are more of us who try not too sin too much than those who sin a lot. I think our too small sins are not worth His life. It was just a fruit, God, that Eve ate! Think of that!

I ate more fruits from the yard next to ours. And how the barbed-wires cut! No need to hide that. The trail of blood led the sin straight to me! And I can not count the times I climbed the wires and sinned and sinned! The fruits were worth all that!   

And with wide eyes, she tries to look his angst straight at Him. At Him who is everywhere.

And she feels His tap on her head, on her cheek.

And He talked to her thoughts, to her heart.

                               (to be continued next week.)

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
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