the wrestling meadow

standing in in empty meadow alone, he didn't quite know why he was there.

at times while he was standing,
his knees trembled with exhaustion,
but he kept on standing.
at times he would stare into the milky white moon
until his vision was filled with its pasty brilliance,
then he would stare some more.

he didn't come here to converse with God or merely talk; this wasn't "circle time".

he was here to fight: there is no goal or purpose in his standing here but to bellow profanities, scream obscenities, and vent repressed emotion in whatever unhealthy way he can think of. He was so tired of composure and patience. His heart felt too big for his body. The ocean of his ever-changing emotions threatened to overwhelm him in a tidal wave of confusion and pain. With every fiber of his dilapidated being, he cursed whatever was out there. Ever since he could remember, he has constantly struggled with the concept of a loving God. It was hard to understand such a thing when the only love he ever got from his father was between verbal and physical abuse where he would encouragingly say: "maybe you can be more like your brother".

His wailing pierces the quiet dull night and even the creatures of the surrounding vacant forest turn their heads to listen for a moment.

where God to hear his haggard cries, surely they would not leave Him unmarked.
they must be like firebrands to His soul.
they must echo in his ears like a shattering glass and raging waterfalls.
or are they more like nails on a chalkboard?

never has he felt so close to truth, yet so utterly distant from it. with every epiphany and/or self-discovery comes yet another lingering doubt. he second guesses everything right down to his very existence.

the wind catches his loose clothing, causing it to billow over his skinny wretched form. the veins on his neck bulge as he sings a song of bitterness and confusion. oh how he has hated God for so long and cursed His existence . . . that is if He even does exist! Considering the state of the world and the pain that fills it, it is almost better for the sake of God's reputation if He didn't exist. Because if He does, he certainly has some explaining to do.

just as he was thinking about how stupid he must look yelling at the dead and noiseless night,
something inside him told him to be silent.

so he closed his mouth (which was still making some sort of noise) and let the silence of the earth overtake him.

his vision is blurry. his face is hot and flushed. tears are still spilling down onto his shirt.
and as he stands there alone, overwhelmed, and trembling in the vacant meadow,
he realizes that there are so many things he definitely does not believe in:

Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and UFO's immediately came to his mind . . . just to name a few.

but never would he come out to a meadow to yell or shout at any of them.
never would he participate in an organized protest against them.
never would he even attempt to try and "wrestle" with them like this.

he realizes, that more than anything else, he is just angry with God.
but that begs the question: how could he be angry with something that does not exist?
how could his heart be so restless over something that shouldn't matter if it doesn't exist?

and the finality of the moment came crashing down against his being.

he came out here to be . . . with Someone;
he came out here to yell . . . at Someone.
he came out here to wrestle . . . with Someone.
he came out here to be loved . . . by Someone.
all this time, he was really just waiting for whoever this Someone was to show up and do something . . . anything.

and as his body began to sway with the trees,
as his heart began to beat in rhythm with the crickets,
he heard himself cry out in unison with all of humanity his need for God.

and as the surrounding quietness began to thicken like slow-forming dough,
he found himself singing a song.
And the song was this:

"oh steady faith come,
let simple trust flow.

oh fast hope come,
like the four winds blow.

oh dear Love come,
come and shake the walls
of my soul."

and there, that very night in a desolate meadow,

he wasn't given a "sign". he wasn't even shown "proof". . .

he was shown Love.