Words of The Lamb magazine

The lightning struck like never before. Sheila knew it was a sign that she had gone far beyond her bounds. She pleaded with God to drown her strife with rain. Yet He hadn’t answered until tonight. She teased God with taunting and an old-fashioned temper tantrum. How dare He not listen to her! She thought. Up until this night, she believed she’d done all He had asked. Showed herself approved day and night, read the word, interceded on behalf of others, and tithed more than she could, hoping it was enough. Yet she seemed to think He was not listening. She stood in front of the ocean waves, only seeing white as a flash of light scathed past her skin. He confirmed His presence and, more importantly, His ear.

The sand stung as it whipped across her body. She imagined that each grain of sand was a piece of God’s disdain that He called by name. She stood at the edge as the sea foam brushed the tips of her toes. Daring and demanding God to save her if she jumped in. Would He heed her? Would He comply? Would He enter into negotiations with her terroristic thoughts?

Watching the violent waves crash, she now knew what she thought. He wouldn’t. She didn’t intend to drown, only for her eyes to be filled with salt water as she listened to the muffled current—just for a moment, to know if He was here, to know if He was real.

The smell of static in the air made her hesitant to walk any further into the blue abyss. She retraced her steps to her sandy altar. She yearned to feel nothing. She wanted to be stripped of all her senses. If God wouldn’t do it, the ocean would take His place.

Sheila stumbled to her knees as another bolt of lightning made everything in sight turn bright. The grit rubbing against her skin acted as sandpaper, smoothing out her rough edges. She remained still as the sound of silence sang to her.

Thunder did not accompany the storm she called down. No rain fell. Only the blinding bolts that spoke to His existence. She didn’t feel the need to cry or to weep, but the tears came anyway without wailing. He quietly brought her to her knees. Every strike was intentional.

The sand softened beneath her, embracing her weight. The waves calmed. But her fist—her fist remained clenched, holding onto the unknown. The lightning was drawn into the clouds as the quiet rang in her ears. His imprint was in the sand and streaks of Him… across the sky.

Her expectations were left unmet, but the squall rattling inside her echoed His voice through the fabric of her soul. Contempt and disbelief were her rewards. Her reckoning was His
sovereign response.

Finally, the rain came, not to drown her pain as she had hoped but to compose a serenade. As they landed on her countenance, each drop sang to Sheila that it is not the absence of one’s humanity that proves His existence but the presence of suffering that showed His proximity. She opened her fist, but the pain didn’t leave. Nor did He.