He Becomes a Wizard(and yet)

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.