The Questions of God. Don’t Ask Them

The questions of God have struck me repeatedly over the years, but I’ve been open and they’ve jumped me often and brutally in the last few months. Occasionally they knock me right out and leave me bleeding all over the carpet. My bedroom has a wooden floor, which delivers sharp heat upon landing but makes for a far more efficient clean up.

Death has bitten hard in this last half a year and has taken two pieces of my heart with it, wherever it has gone. Now comes a consideration: if the blows of these questions and what I have taken to be answers have coincided not coincidentally. When I talk of answers, I’ve been left wandering and wondering whether all this knocking at His door has pissed Him off, and whether now He’s determined to show me the full measure of that Might I’ve heard so much about.

It hasn’t been ideal. The great December 18th show He put on, of tragedy, posed more and blacker questions. So I asked them to Him weakly but with a little hope. But He gave me the answer of pain, and yet still I have more questions.

No more for now. I’ve put them in a box and rested them under one of my blood-stained wooden floorboards. If my heart can’t be, I need my head intact.

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