It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.
She takes His hand in hers, caresses His fingers; a tear appears in the corner of her eye, slowly forms, then plunges down her cheek through the blush, leaving the slightest of trails amongst many trails, leaving one more burden amongst many burdens. Too much, too much! Another broken promise, another broken heart amongst so many breaks in her heart; her heart that so ardently seeks only joy, love, order, peace.
Only fools make promises that a future cannot predict, since prescience is limited to a chosen few and God, if there is a God. She prayed to her God. She prayed in sanctuary, while driving, on her knees, between the tasks at hand. His answer unclear in the chaos of her mind—the conflicts between the flesh and the Word overwhelming all other thoughts, actions, deeds. God’s will! God’s will be done. Only how does she interpret His will? Her choice is made, regardless of the message which may or may not have been sent and may or may not have been received. How does she know except by the choices she has made?
“Selene, are you there?” a voice at her door that she leaves unanswered. Footsteps recede in the hall and it is quiet. Too quiet! Thoughts invade silence and create the cacophony of debate, the cymbal’s clash, the cloven reed’s rattle. There must be a god, the God, mustn’t there? How can one exist without the hope for something better? Without faith there is no God since he hasn’t produced His image into her presence. Oh, there is the vague connection between His works and His Heaven bridged by faith. Or His Word which in turn is simply an inspiration bridged by faith. Faith!
But love: the passion, intimacy, commitment to another, ‘There must be a god because there is love’ she reflects as she strokes His hand. ‘God loves me; it says so in the Word. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth. Without love I am nothing’ she muses. Perusing her loves that flash across this apparition: not one transcended above imperfections of envy, pride, selfishness, anger, boastfulness, belligerence. Love should be patient, kind, trusting, persevering, hopeful. She caresses each of His fingers, one at a time, and then His palm, wrist…. She places His hand on her breast, her body tingling with fascination, her brain stimulated by the pheromones or dopamines or serotonins; any or all of them. She plunges His hand into her heart, surging, cleaving her soul, ripping it from her senses. Their souls commingle breathlessly, pushing, pulling, seething in the warmth of steaming blood—clashing of passion, intimacy. Then fleeing the moment, these raptured souls are rendered apart by the very imperfections of love, the sins of the flesh, the commission of reflection, the absence of commitment.
“Selene, are you there?” again the voice and a knock at the door startles her “Answer me, please—do you want to see me?” “One moment” she says as she unwarily returns His hand into the mouth of the specimen jar and down into the viscous preparation of honey for sweetness and formaldehyde for preservation. She clamps on the lid and covers the jar with a purple shawl then gathers a red rose from the bouquet, kisses it and places it on top. She extinguishes the candle with her finger and thumb, God’s most perfect feat, rubbing them together to rid the slight burning sensation, the wax and the soot. She rises and walks to the door, passing other shawls; white for purity, colors for various levels of the sin or desire—from pastels to the most vibrant of hues—randomly lit by groupings of candles.
Opening the door, a young woman appears in white gossamer and they caress, their tongues searching and surging for compassion. Compassion! “Come in, come in, what is your name” she says as she leads the woman into the radiance and takes her hand, caressing it, a finger at a time and then her palm, wrist….
“My name” says the woman “is Rose”