Dialogue, Feb. 7

Me: God, I need to see You. O God, I need to see You.
God: I'm here.
Me: 
God: Look at Me.
Me: Huh?
God: I'm right here.
Me: (mumble)
God: I've got all the time in the world...
Me: What, right now?
God:
Me: Rats. I actually wanted to sleep.
God: Not yet. Look at me.
Me: Thanks. Ok, yup. That's better. Thanks.
Me: How about I sleep now?
God:
Me: ...OK, so...
God: What do you want?
Me: I'm not sure how to answer that. There are about three true answers. I guess I want to want You, if that counts...
God: It does.
Me: But that means I have to stay up and be with You for a while, doesn't it?
God: Possibly.
Me: You mean I need to cooperate... i.e. the shortest route is surrender?
God: You'll just have to trust Me on this.
Me: (long, slow breath)
God: Can you drink this cup?


--
Thank You, God. You won't leave me to starve on my own juices. Even when I hardly want You, try to pray but hardly do, You answer. Calmly and persistently.
You understand how it is. But You also understand that only You will satisfy me, and You answer Your own magnet within me. You want my highest good, my deepest pleasure, more than I do myself. 
You see through my palliative fantasies and have compassion on me. Too jealous and too kind to give up.
You know that in wanting a man I'm only wanting You. You know that in rolling impossible brokennesses over in my mind, I'm really asking, "Is the impossible really possible? Can anything ever change? Can redemption strike here?" 
I do want to want You. And I want You. And I need to see You. 
O God, I need to see You.