Where God Hears Me

I.

When I was a little girl, I used to try and imagine what it would be like to meet God and Jesus at the end of all things. I imagined God reviewing my life on a larger-than-life screen—every joy and sadness magnified in great detail (and this was before HD)—as the rest of the world watched and waited for the special screening of their own lives. I used to get very anxious about sharing this movie with my parents and aunts and uncles. I didn’t want them to know everything. What would they think? I could almost feel my mom’s embarrassment over my mistakes burning into the back of my head. I thought she might want to interject and say, “God, I didn’t raise her to be like that.” And then I would feel even more shame and regret for making her look bad in front of God. You can probably see where this is going so I’ll just say I did not look forward to meeting God. I always felt engulfed by a sense of shame and anxiety and terror whenever I thought about it. My parents didn’t raise me to believe this. I didn’t hear it in church. I just have a wild imagination.

But I don’t think this is how it will happen.

(This is just my opinion.)

I think God will talk to me about my life over coffee or while He’s showing me around heaven. I think (and hope) it will take a long time.

II.

I get up a little bit earlier on the days I know I have special me-time scheduled with God. I shower (even going so far as to shampoo TWICE) and brush and floss my teeth. I know this doesn’t sound special but I floss maniacally when I am nervous, like right before a date or a job interview. Then I pick out a nice dress and fuss over which shoes to wear until God knocks on my door, at which point I feel pressured into wearing the cuter shoes instead of the comfier ones. God says,

“Oh Bean, it is so nice to see you,” as though He hasn’t seen me in ages and is genuinely delighted to see me. I imagine God makes everyone feel like that every time He sees them (even if it’s multiple times in the same day). We hug.

“I think you might want to bring a sweater. I know you get cold easily.” So I grab my favorite sweater before joining Him on my porch. He hands me a porcelain eco tumbler. (Because God is very eco-friendly.)

“I brought you coffee.”

“Thanks God.”

And then we watch the world wake up while sipping our coffees in comfortable silence. We wave at my neighbor stretching before his morning run and say “Good morning”. I re-think my shoe choice and run inside to change into the comfier shoes. As He steps off my porch, He says

“I want to show you something.”

He is a few steps ahead of me down the walkway so I run to catch up with Him.

“What? What is it?”

“Wait and see. I’ve wanted to show you for a long time.”

My head is spinning but I notice I’m lagging (this happens often because I get easily distracted) so I force myself to focus. We walk through the copse of old trees toward the city. It looks like we’re going to the Library of Dreams but He doesn’t stop as we walk past the big wooden doors. He smiles and waves at people we pass in the street but keeps walking walking walking—past the bakery and the florist and my favorite bookstore. We pass people walking their dogs and leopards and iguanas and wave at children flying brightly-colored kites at the park off the main road. God buys us Churros at the Churro cart and motions for me to sit beside Him underneath a big tree. The sun is warm on my legs. I kick my shoes off and wiggle my long, crooked toes.

“Aren’t these the best Churros?” 

I nod, my mouth full of warm, crunchy, cinnamon-and-sugar goodness. It’s also all over my face.

It’s also all over His face.

“You have stuff in your beard again.” He brushes the crumbs out of His beard but there are still more.

“No, there’s still—right there, okay a little more.”

“Thanks Bean.”

“Your beard is good at catching things. I bet it would be useful.”

“Do you want one?”

I look at God to see if He’s joking. He is trying to hide His smile. It’s not working.

“Maybe just for an hour but not today, please.” God laughs. It is deep and hearty. It’s the kind of laugh that makes plants grow really fast, like the amount it would take to grow in three days.

“This park is nice,” I say. God nods before adding,

“But it’s not where we’re going. Come on.”

So we get up and brush grass off our clothes before we continue walking. I am trying to be patient but I am restless so I scratch my arm even though it isn’t itchy. I am about to comment about how far we’ve walked but I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. God says,

“I remember when you first learned to ride a bike. I watched you from here.”

I look around. We are walking toward a lake, blue-green and glassy and calm on this sunny day. There’s a long, sun-bleached dock that yawns from the shore into the distance. And beyond, I see an island, blurred and green against the horizon. I stop walking.

“From here? You watched me from here?” God stops mid-stride, turns to me and says,

“Well, here and there,” He says. He is pointing toward the island.

“That’s where we’re going?”

He is already on the dock so I run to catch up. When I reach Him, He has already climbed into the sail boat (it wasn’t there before—weird) and is patiently waiting for me. I take off my shoes and step cautiously into the boat, holding His hand to steady myself.

And all of a sudden, we’re off—sailing quietly across the lake. I lie on my stomach and peer over the edge. A sea monster, lithe and graceful and gray-green in the water, is keeping pace with our boat.

“Are you curious about where we’re going?” God asks. I sit up.

“Of course, but I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me now.” God smiles and shakes His head.

“I was out on this lake when you asked me for a baby brother.”

I look at Him but have to shade my eyes because He is radiant. And because the sun is blinding me.

“Yeah, and I got Sarah. But I’m glad You sent her. She worked out great.”

God smiles knowingly. He has a wonderful smile. It makes me feel loved. It almost feels like my body is having a physical reaction to His love, like my hair grows a little bit longer and teeth get whiter but I think that’s just my imagination (again). We pull up to the dock, a twin of its brother on the opposite shore. God gets out first and helps me out of the boat. I am still holding my shoes. I run down the dock, my feet pounding against the weathered wood, before jumping onto the sand. It is soft and warm beneath my toes. I bury my feet.

“You might want to put on your shoes. We’re not there yet.”

I reluctantly put on my shoes and follow God toward a path through the trees. It is cooler (cold, even) in the shadow of the tall trees so I finally put on my sweater.

“What is this place?” I ask. We are now in a clearing—lush and green and beautiful—that rolls into a hill. Atop that hill is a house.

“I guess you could say this is one of my offices,” He says.

We climb the hill toward the house. It is beautiful in its simplicity—a ranch-style home with a wrap-around porch and neatly painted shutters. A tawny lion is sprawled out on the landing. It gets up as we approach.

“Is that yours?” I ask. God pets the lion’s huge head. It licks and nuzzles His hands affectionately.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He just doesn’t leave.” The lion swaps its heavy paw at God’s leg. The lion turns its massive head to look at me but doesn’t come closer (but I think it’s close enough). I am terrified but cannot move; I am mesmerized by its eyes—clear pools of liquid amber.

“You can pet him. He’s friendly.”

Before I can muster up the courage to take a step forward, it licks my face. I scrunch up my nose and wipe the drool off.

“T-t-t-t-t-t-thank you. That’s enough,” I stammer. God laughs. He opens the door and waits for me to enter.

The house is a lot bigger than it looks. The walls are covered with framed pictures of all different shapes and sizes. There are books everywhere—beneath lamps, in stacks on tables, stuffed beneath couch cushions. I really want to explore but God says,

“Bean, follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”

I really want to check out His book collection and explore the rest of the house but I follow Him down a long corridor lined with doors. They are curious doors of different shapes and sizes and colors. There are different markers on each one—gold plaques, hand-written scribbles, antique signage—but we’re moving too quickly for me to study them. Of course, I still try, which is why I don’t notice that God has stopped in front of one of them. I walk straight into His back.

“Oops. Sorry.”

We are standing in front of a green door. There’s nothing fancy about it but it’s simple and sturdy. My name is engraved into the wood. I smile as I trace my fingers over each letter. God opens the door and what I see

Takes my breath away.

The door opens into a forest as old as time. As God leads me through the doorway, I sneak a look back at the hallway to make sure it’s real. My green door—embedded in a thick tree trunk—is still open. I can see the bright blue door that is across the hall from mine. The forest is noisy with the questions of curious birds and the whisper of the wind rushing through tall canopies. In the distance, I see a field of wildflowers—bright and bold and almost ridiculous. God beckons for me to follow Him. We are walking toward the field.

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure where we are yet but it reminds me of Narnia, which makes me happy.” God laughs and says,

“Oh Bean—your imagination makes me happy.”

And that makes my heart really happy. As we walk toward the field, He says

“This is our place.”

There is such tenderness in His eyes as He says this.

“Our place? Like this is mine? I don’t get it…” I say. God picks a yellow flower and hands it to me.

“Look closely at it, Bean. Tell me what you see.”

It looks like a yellow wildflower at first glance. But as I peer closer, I see

My words

Faintly ingrained into its delicate petals. I can barely make out, “…heal my heart…” I pick more flowers—pinks and peaches and corals and golds—and see prayers I prayed a million years ago in the stems and leaves and petals and hearts of each flower.

“Please heal him, God, even though there’s no cure…”


“I am so lonely…”


“…I am tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of being hurt…”


“I don’t want to love you-know-who. Can I pass on this trial?”

“These are my prayers.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed at some of the prayers I see and drop those on the ground.

“Do you know where we are now?”

I hesitate.

“Are we still in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Is ‘heaven’ the right answer?”

God laughs. At least two dozen wildflower prayers bloom in response.

“Well, it’s an acceptable answer but it’s not the answer.”

“Oh. Are you grading on a curve?” I ask. We both laugh.

“You’re not being graded. This isn’t a pop quiz.”

“What a relief. I hate those.”

“So, do you give up?”

“Will you think less of me if I do?”

“No, of course not.”

“Thanks, God. You’re nice.”

I punch God softly in the arm. He punches me back very gently. I’m sure a real punch would’ve put a hole in my torso. God lays down in the grass and puts His hands behind His head. He is watching a purple dragon soar overhead. He points toward it and says,

“See that? That’s one of your prayers, too.”

I lay down beside Him and look up at the sky. I can only look at the dragon for a little while before my eyes begin to water, it’s so bright. I have to take off my sweater and use it to cover my face. I am in danger of dozing off—it’s just so warm and lovely, I can’t help it!—when I hear God speak.

“This is my favorite place to hear you.”

“I’d come here, too. It’s nice.”

“I think it is, too. Nice work.”

“What?”

“You made this place.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whenever you talked to me about friends or boys or your family, I always came here. This place is made of your prayers, our conversations...”

“They’re all here? Every single one?”

“Yup.”

“Even the unanswered prayers?”

“Just because you thought I didn’t answer them doesn’t mean I didn’t.”

“What about the ones I didn’t pray? What about those times I didn’t talk to You?”

“Oh Bean. I was here, waiting for you, even when you didn’t want me around.”

“But why here?”

“I’ve wanted to bring you here for so long. But you weren’t ready.”

“Ready for what? Are you annoyed with all my questions?”

“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions. That’s fine.”

God smiles. I scratch my elbow.

“Ready for what?” I sound like a broken record.

“I’ve been waiting for a long time to show you what I can do with your prayers—even the ones you thought I didn’t answer; even the ones you prayed in hurt and anger.”

And like no time has passed, I remember all the times I prayed prayers in anger and frustration. I remember all the times I talked at Him instead of to Him. I remember the things I said. Worse, I remember the things I didn’t say. I remember the things I did.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”

“I still feel bad.”

“That’s not why I brought you here.”

God looks at me and says,

“Don’t you see, Little Bean? Don’t you see what I can do with your prayers?”

A curious hare is sniffing my toes, its whiskers tickling me relentlessly. It’s almost unbearable but I struggle to restrain my trembling feet. I don’t want to kick it in the face!

“You make things?”

“I turn them all into something beautiful. Now do you see?”

III.

So much life has happened lately that I feel like I haven’t been able to have really good conversations with God about everything. I’ll have snippets of conversations—I like to think of them as text messages—but no five-hour talks over three cups of tea. I am hungry for those. This post was born out of a longing for a good conversation with Him. Because a LOT has happened: relationships have changed; growing up keeps happening (even though I don't feel ready for it); my skin is losing its elasticity (which means I'm aging); everything in between. As I hurry to keep up with the pace of life these days, I think about Him, waiting to talk to me.

And that makes me miss Him.

Do you ever feel that way?