He has ears to hear.

God is still good today. That's a remarkable trick--being so good two days in a row.

Every day for all of eternity. Particularly impressive.

The sense of God's presence was very acute in the sanctuary at James River last night. I don't mean that to be trite, or ridiculous. I mean it sincerely, and with force. Every so often, I am in a church or a particular service of a church I frequent, and the sense of God is overwhelming. I close my eyes. I stop singing, and just feel.

Last night, eyes closed, head bowed, listening to the voices around me singing praise to Christ, I was overcome with the reality of the situation. Regardless of our creed or dogma, we serve the same Lord. Whether or not I think my pewmate's politics are atrocious, and without reference to the finer points of her theology, we are one. That's truth. And that's good. It's a hard lesson for me, and one I need to learn again and again.

Later, we began to pray. Spoken prayer arose from the crowd around me--the general hum of so many voices, punctuated by the individuals I could hear distinctly. Some whispering, some talking aloud, clear as day. All praying fervently to God, for help, for love, and comfort. Suddenly, everything in me slowed. I talk fast, I type fast, I pray fast. But in that moment, I drawled. One word after another, slow and steady, and silent. And I was struck by the oddity that though my voice is silent, amidst all of these voices aloud, God heard me. One prayer in thousands. He heard me. He heard me. He HEARD me. A small miracle.

I sank back into my chair, comfortable and loved, and content to be with Him, and His many, many lovers. I listened to the prayers go up around me, and listened to my own prayers. And basked in the love of a God so powerful. In that moment, His will made such perfect sense. "Be with me," He said. "The rest will take care of its self."

I am always thinking. I mean, I think a lot. About everything. Even things that don't need to be thought about. And when I think about God, and church, and religion, and spirituality, I start to tend to get a little nuts. I get mired in the confusion, and forget to enjoy it. Without darkness, what is light? Without pain, who would care for joy?

Lindell told this funny story of an elderly woman who, for several months in a row, would come to his bible study, and challenge him. Apparently, she was not having any of what he had to offer. This made me laugh so hard because I am that woman. I show up every week, two times per week, and I'm sure look as though I'm on the suit-end of an IRS audit. I'm evaluating. Deciding.

I endorse both. But I don't know that thought has to be mutually exclusive to feeling.

What would Jeremiah do?