I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night from a dream I could not remember. I waited a moment studying the darkness until illumination from a streetlight helped me make sense of my surroundings. I breathed deeply, beginning to relax as a sliver - just a flash from the dream that frightened me - came back to me. I shivered, then heard myself speak aloud, “I miss You, God.” I said into the darkness.
A long time ago when I was a child growing up, I believed that praying meant talking to God. Later, as I started to grow old, I began meditating, believing that meditation meant listening to God. But on this night, I realized I’d been doing too little of either - praying or meditating. Perhaps because I believed I could no longer find God there.
Alone in my room that night, I realized it was neither the talking nor the listening that I missed. It was the dialogue. But when did I ever have that? I wondered. I had no idea. But I must have had it once, I reasoned, or I would not be missing it now.
What would the voice of God sound like? I wondered as I got up on my elbows to punch the pillow and turn it around. Would the voice of God have a loud, echoing resonance that would haunt my dreams? Or would it have the sweet, gentle timbre of a babbling brook? Or would it come to me cognitively, without words?
“I miss You, God,” I spoke aloud again as I returned my head to the pillow.
“I miss you, too,” He whispered so low I almost missed it.
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