dangerous edginess.

Father.

Father.

I don't know who you are. The church says you're this one thing. Another church, another. Same with the books. You're a cruel God, or a magnificent God, a mysterious God, or no God. They don't even always talk about you. Sometimes, I can only tell what they think about you by the way they treat you. Do they pray with conviction? Do they live on that dangerous edge of true faith? Do they find you in philosophy?

I find you in the dark quiet. And I wonder if I've found you, or just the deepest part of myself.

I can say that you must be good, because sunrises are beautiful, and praying in tongues is incredible, and sex is sensational. But then why is war so terrible? Why are people dying of starvation while I write these words, and who hears the prayers of those who live dead?

You could have created anything, and this is what you chose? A diametric world? In which good can only be understood next to bad? Joy to pain? Calm to terror? Contentedness to relentless questioning.

So, are you awful, because you allow both?

You know, Lake Michigan is beautiful. When I stand on the shore, looking out across the water, I feel calm. But I know there's danger. As stunning as it is, it's also unremittingly harsh. What makes it so majestically great also makes it greatly dreadful.

Are you like that?

My heart tells me something good about you. It tells me of a tenderness, even now. It tells me of a promise.