Waiting...For An Answer

I can't hear you, God.  Are you there?  I search for you every day and every night, but I can't see you or feel you.  Every urge within me compels me to believe you've gone away and left me, but I've been here before, and I know it isn't so.  And while I long for you to answer me, I understand that sometimes, this is what you do.  You observe.  You're in the room, refusing to speak, refusing to intervene, and refusing to let me know why.

I know you could give me what I want at the drop of a hat.  You could.  But you're not.  Which means there is a reason.

Why does your silence always feel like abandonment?  It shouldn't be so.  I think of Esther.  You never spoke once in her entire story--your name is never named.  But you're there.  You're written in the pages, in every comma, in every period, in every black-inked letter that swoops into the desperate cries for you to save.  They don't ask where you are, even though you're quiet.  You're in the ear of Mordecai, capturing every threat of murder before it becomes a reality.  You're in the jeweled golden crown atop Esther's mane, which has been placed for such a time as this.  You're in the room when she kneels in prayer with her handmaidens, in the throne room when she begs the king for aid.

Your answer is in a stake of impalement.

You're there, unspoken as it may seem.

I think of Joseph.  Again, we never hear your voice when the world seems to be falling apart for someone who doesn't deserve it.  But you're there.  You're in every colorful stitch of the coat that makes him favored and yet hated.  You're in the bottom of the well, where he's left for dead, and in the slavery cart where he's promised life, captive or not.  You're in the house of Potiphar and in his dark, unmerited dungeon of despair.  You're in the feast and the famine, in the Egyptian throne room.

Your answer is in an embrace between a traitor and betrayed.

You're there, quiet as you may seem.

I think of the 400 years of silence in the Bible, when the world longs for you to come and save them.  It's a black-out period of no seeing or hearing from the living God.  But you're there.  You're in the wings of the heavens, crafting the perfect plan for redemption.  You're in the belly of a girl, growing fingers and toes and a heart that beats for the soul of mankind.  You're in the dirt of the dusty road to Bethlehem, in the occupancy of every inn.  You're in the moos of the cows and the constant ache of a labor pain.

Your answer is crying in a manger.

You're there, tiny and helpless as you may seem.

I think of Jesus, kneeling before you in the Garden of Gethsemane, begging you to change your blueprint of salvation.  We don't hear you speak to your own Son.  But you're there.  You're in the footsteps of the guards, in forty pieces of silver, and in the cold kiss of betrayal.  You're in the cuff upon his wrist and in the denying words of Peter.  You're in the release of Barrabas and in the hand-washing of Pilate.  You're in the crack of every whip, the point of every thorn, the steel of every nail.  You're in every drop of blood, in every bead of sweat.  You're in the dying belief of a criminal and the darkening of the clouds.  You're in the ripping of the curtain, the splitting of the rocks, and the final breath of Love.

Your answer is an empty tomb.

You're there.  You're here.  No matter how long your answers take.  You're in every detail, for even in your silence, you don't let go of control.

And so, in your silence, I'll listen.  I'll look for you.  I'll search the patterns of your mysteries with the entirety of my heart.

I'll be here on my knees, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for you to answer.