Sometimes, when I pray, I hear silence. Sometimes, when that happens, I wonder, sometimes, worry that nothing, No One is there.
Sometimes, when that happens, I laugh at myself for thinking, believing that reason, even sometimes, can fathom inescapable Mystery.
Sometimes, when that happens, after the quieting of my logic’s laughter, then I, in hushed reverence, like Elijah, hear the “still, small voice.”
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