knock and the door shall be...

Something I read today, struck a nerve. Suppose we really found him. What if, He met us today? I know I’m not ready. I know there are things I’ve done that I haven’t been able to ask forgiveness for, mostly because I haven’t dealt with them actually happening.
In suggesting that for the most part, we’re playing around with the image of God, one of my favourite writers seems to have said the wisest thing.
Because really, what are we looking for when we say we search for God? A counselor, a friend? Forgiveness? Someone to thank? Someone to ask ‘why me?’ I know I search for different things in God, on different days. Comfort seems to be the word that encompasses all of them...
"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you."

[Fiction]

And so I thought of your room today.
Your lights are always on whenever I drive past and I wonder what you do in there all the time. I remember the first time you took me there, the way I felt. I was trying to hide myself in some way. Hide fear, hide scars, hide inexperience, hide drunkenness. I remember your smile, the one you’ve flashed me so often, and the one I shy away from every time I see it. Life feels surreal when I’m with you, like an excerpt from a racy novel. You don’t feel like the other people I meet. I look up to you in a different way. You constantly surprise me.
When we talk after, while you smoke a cigarette and ash it, I watch your fingers. I love feeling the sound of your voice fill my head. Sometimes I tune out the words and then it’s just a sound, a kind of music. I understand you, in so many ways. Your eccentricities all make sense to me.
When we talk before, I feel my stomach go into a knot. I feel my forehead moistening. I wonder what’ll happen and I wait. I even find that I hold my breath sometimes.
You’re always honest with me, sometimes subtly, sometimes brutally. I feel like you’re always careful not to hurt my feelings too much. You don’t like it when I play down my abilities, but when I big myself up, you break me.
We talk often – at dinners, on drives and on my terrace. We talk of our ideals, our dreams and how everything is so eff-ing wrong. We never talk about us though, and when we do, even in jest, I don’t say much. You say – we’re this and we’re that. I listen and smile, and nod. To an outsider, it may seem like I don’t think about our relationship, but in truth, I have analysed it, over-analysed it, dissected it, in every way possible.