I’m reading and I feel the familiar tightness in my chest, almost commanding me to contract. To fold inward, to become smaller than my self.
Some feel God in the burning of their bosoms. To me, He comes like a pit in my stomach. The Holy Spirit of Terror.
I keep reading until I can take it no more and I put the book down. Very clever, Lord, coming to me in the word, in the story. Logos. I like it.
I can’t go anywhere, so I begin to pace. I make circles around the store. Wandering, not to seek, but to avoid being found. I try to start reading again, but my mind is fixated on something. On Something. On You.
So, I open the laptop and begin to type. If you come when I take in the Word, will you leave when I push the Story from my soul?