Why, when I pray...and see the very human anguish of Gethsemenae...
Can't I look further back and sit on the midwife's stoop...the herb garden....
Or dump them all, every faith I've seen.
For the one I've wished for...where Deity connects and sees and cares...As my one voice sings in some small stone chapel, heard further, further up, to intermingle with the stars at night.
That that same Deity leaves a cold list of expectations home with the housework...expecting and assuming that we know right from wrong...
And instead is a guide, a tracker, a map reader....just ahead along the road of life, and that like the edges on onions, old ideas peel away....and leave understanding behind.
Where is *that* sense of God...? That sense I sing to in the night.
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