“God really does have a presence, do you know? He asked it almost petulantly, as though his proximity to tears was due to some skepticism on our part. “My whole being would throb with this awareness of His person. I thought I could feel His heart. And at such times I was glad everyone else kept their distance, because often I would dance and laugh and weep and sing and shout all at the same time because my chest felt like it would truly, truly burst if I did not. I felt – I felt...well, have you ever seen a young child greet a beloved father after a long absence? The little arms pumping, the little legs churning, the leap into his arms, the tears in the father's eyes? I felt like that. A child so overcome with joy at His return that all I wanted to do in this world was to leap as high into His bosom as I could. And I could feel His tears, too. That's the wonder of it, don't you see? I could feel His Spirit being fed, His heart gladdened, His pain – yes, His pain – being healed somehow.”
He halted his speech and looked down into his lap somberly. Then he said very quietly, almost a whisper, “I could feel God's pain. In fact, I thought of it on my journey here whenever I looked out at the eternity of the desert. God's pain because of sin and evil and heartbreak was vast and endless and searing. I can still feel its weight upon my soul.” He looked at me with a glance that had suddenly grown edgy and piercing. Then he shook his head, obviously disappointed. “That's only a tiny part of it, don't you know?”
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