A couple of nights ago, my sister and I were driving home from picking up a pizza. It was a dark and rainy night, and as we passed the high school track, I saw a car parked right up next to the closed gate. There was a tall figure, leaned up against the fencing, only illuminated by a streetlamp. He was staring out onto the total darkness of the track, all alone.
I think I understood him, or at least I might have understood why.
Last spring was a hard time for me, sometimes it would become too loud, too overpowering. When that happened, I would rush out to my mother's car, often quite late at night, and I would drive out to the museum. Of course, the museum would always be closed, the streets dark and empty, and I usually didn't even stay very long. But it was my quiet place. It was safe, and alone, and calm.
I too pray to a dark and quiet God, who would never be found in a church. Only a beaten high school track, or a deserted museum parking lot.
Something about the emptiness of the night makes me feel full, like I can finally stretch my legs, as if I finally have room to grow to full size. I can at last see things clearly and wholly.
I feel very powerful, strong.
Only in these moments of quiet clarity, do I feel this silent and pure God. He is safe and unspeaking, he understands. He listens, though he already knows. He is not good, not evil, but he provides me rest when things are bad.
baratheonpilled
janainaart
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl