There have been times
when I wanted to talk directly to God.

More specifically,
I’ve wanted to sit knee to knee with God and ask,

“Excuse me, Almighty One, why is THIS (pain) part of your plan?”

Even more specifically (but secretly) 
what I’ve really, truly, determinedly wanted to shout 
(with knees pressed against God’s and face turned upward in sincere supplication)

is:  “What the fuck are you up to?!!”

(Yes. I understand that such a question may not qualify as prayer.)

But of course,
by the simple virtue of being “The-All-Knowing,”
God is and has always been privy to these innermost furious frustrations
whether shouted, whispered, cried or kept silent. 

There are no secrets between us, but the conversation still feels lob-sided.

I must surrender to a basic truth:
That as surely as the Almighty already knows when I am exhausted and broken, so too – 

God also knows how my feeble heart explodes night after night when
the evening sky descends, and I am inexplicably in love — night after night — 
with the majestic shade of cobalt that stretches across the mountain ridges of home.

Every time I’ve wanted to have the knee chat with God, it’s been inspired by pain. 

The greater the pain, the more comfortable I am being pissed at God. 
The deeper the fury, the louder and more inappropriate the prayers become.

Maybe God answers.
Maybe the answers are offered up in a world that can only be described as astoundingly mysterious and beautiful. Maybe – once the fury subsides – that’s how Hope gains a foothold.

If you need proof, just go sit in the dirt. Go sit in the damp wet soil of a garden
and don’t ask for mercy; just be still.

Lately, I am feeling a third go-round with God.
It brews in my gut and rises into my heart with an ache.

We continually strike bargains and balance of peace.
We continue being…whatever it is we are: God and me. 
The Miraculous and…..the not much.

(c) Martha Lee Phelps ~ May 2022