In anticipation of birthing a group dedicated to prayer, I am opening all the curtains. There is, of course, a constant stream of illumination pouring onto me, or at least potentially so. Ribbons of brilliance can make the epic journey from the sun through a parfait of atmospheres only to be thwarted in the last millisecond by my shuttered blinds.
It is, I will grant you, dark outside at least half of the time. But in my quest to be ready for the moment when gold breaks open, I am willing to wait in the shadows. Brightness arrives softly, without the thump of footsteps.
I read a piece by Richard Rohr about prayer, which drew back the curtains on my unspoken definition of God.
"God is more a verb than a noun, more a process than a conclusion, more an experience than a dogma, more a personal relationship than an idea."
Each of these couplets contrast a static notion with a moving one. Which suggests to me that my response to the Divine should likewise entail action, even the silent kind that happens when a heart breaks open.
The woman in this photograph is still. At least, she is within the confines of this capture. But it chronicles barely an instant in what must be fluid movement. Perhaps that is how it is when I fancy myself to have seen God. Understood His Word. Named His quality.
The Creator of heaven and earth pauses in His unceasing flux, while tending to the angst and hunger of countless children. I gasp to have caught one frame of omniscience, unaware that while my eyes are adjusting to the flash of light He has already moved on.
