Sealed with a Hiss
I don’t understand Pascal. You’d think our chameleon would be used to me after six months of seeing me provide for his every need.
Why the hostility? Is it because we’ve been calling Pascal a guy when there’s a good chance he’s actually a girl? Well that’s just petty. I’m not saying he/she’s above it, but I don’t think it’s the real reason why.
No, I’m pretty sure this is what fear looks like. And … I’m pretty sure my hiss sounds just as heartbreaking to God as Pascal’s sounds to me.
I’m a fickle creature. Sometimes all I feel toward God is fear. Not the healthy kind of awe-and-reverence fear. Think stark terror. I puff up to try to appear intimidating and hiss at the freakishly large hand of God invading my world. There is no conversation; only the muffled pounding of my heart in my ears as I shrink from His touch.
Apparently I have the worst memory ever. Why else would I fail to recognize the provision that same freakishly large hand offers me everyday? Or that the very palm causing me to cower in the corner, is the palm which holds me when I am too spiritually sick to function? Heck, I’m likely to forget the joy of His presence mere moments after experiencing it.
If I could have a conversation with Pascal, the main thing I’d want him/her to know is how much I care about my little he/she. And I would hope—even though my hand reaching down would still be awe-inspiring to him/her—that knowing my heart would bring Pascal peace.