I wept over my break-up with God while driving. I was thinking about our good times; those hundreds of hours spent in praise and worship, and then remembering that I thrilled at the experience of the fellowship all in unison with one intent, but also not admitting that I was not feeling the presence of God, but rather the euphoria of a single-minded meditation of sorts. Not once did He show up. We waited, vigilantly, but no-one could say definitively that He showed up to the party being thrown in His honor.
And that time as a missionary in Mexico when a family brought their daughter, crippled with polio, to a group of us at a work sight. The parents saw the joy in our faces during the Sunday service earlier in the week and where convinced that the Holy Spirit inhabited our praises. We also believed, and we prayed for her leg to straighten as a testimony to her family and village that God will never forsake. But He did.
And the hundreds of hours in prayer.
And so on.
We had a 35-year relationship with plenty of separations and restorations until, well, I just ran out of gas. I didn’t have the one-sided conversation in me anymore. I wasn’t buying the, “God speaks to you through the people he puts in our lives and through the good things that have happened to you and the bad things that didn’t.” I’ve counseled people with that line, but it was very good sounding and anxiety relieving bullshit. He never spoke to me. Not once. Not ever.
I miss Him a lot. I wept so deeply I had to pull over.
That was yesterday. Today I find myself fully dressed and in my right mind. I think I’ll write.