Today, Abba, I was desperate for your voice.
My mind made it a hard day. I mulled over circumstances that bothered me, ways I might help people I love, and the day's list of must-do/have-tos. I didn't feel like I made headway in any direction. It started to feel like I was circling the inside of a brick-walled space, pushing on the walls here and there to no effect, but helplessly continuing to pace my space.
I wanted to hear you.
I kept asking questions. I asked for wisdom. I asked what I should be doing instead. I tried to listen until I heard your answer, but... nothing came back.
Why don't you answer, when I honestly, sincerely, need you? I understand why you don't when my requests are selfish ones, or I'm really just trying to tell you how to do your job, or prove to anyone listening how close we are... then your silence makes sense.
But on a day like today, why do you feel so far away?
In a moment, you showed me a memory of mine.
My child, lost in a game (or book or program or activity), asking me (for the fifth time) what we were going to have for supper.
I didn't answer them, either.
In my silence, I locked eyes on them. I wasn't angry, but calmly, patiently, waiting for them to look at me. I knew the question mattered to them; I knew my answer mattered, too. I knew they wouldn't hear me respond that 5th time--and they'd keep on asking, believing that I wasn't answering.
I wanted to have their attention and their eyes on my face when I answered. I didn't want my answer to be more background noise.
I think sometimes you wait to answer me until you have my attention, until I've made space in my life for your answer. So often I try to cram my exchanges with you into available time. I know you understand that, but thank you for today.
Thank you for allowing me to become desperate.