My God does not speak English.
In meditation, it came to me the parallel between my sons and their silence with me, and my own silence with my maker. Not that I am in any way godlike, and not that their reasons are not justified, only this: regardless of what they said, whether it be a shriek or howl, I would flow to them. I would fill with joy that they turned to me at all. And this: whatever good I might bring into their lives is eclipsed by their right to shun shun me and my respecting their wishes.
If I were to shake my fist at God and curse his name, I believe he sees me and hears me only through the filter of love. He hears the message from my soul. If I curse him, he hears my fear. If I turn away, he honors the greatest gift he gave me: free will. If I turn back to him, he helps pick up the pieces and holds me while I cry. If I put the pieces in his hands, he becomes a wizard and makes them into something better and new.
And yet.
And yet I find myself cursing and turning and sifting for shards. I ignore, disbelieve, believe, and try to give names. It's draining work, especially when I've found over and over that I only need turn around and lift my arms. I only need cry out, and he takes me and holds me. He doesn't care what I call him. He just wants me to call him.
