There is only silence.
"Of course you're listening. You're God! You're always listening."
More silence.
"I'd like for you to talk a little more."
Nothing.
"Fine. You don't have to talk but I have a few things I need to share with you."
Sarah's in bed reading an inspirational book she ordered from somewhere. Che's watching a movie about a bear and a baby on television. Laurel, our 16 year old, is still asleep upstairs. This may be my only uninterrupted moment I have today.
Every day is insanely busy at our house. From the moment I get out of bed, Che and I interact by snuggling, tickling, singing, taking or giving a bath, eating breakfast, getting dressed, taking walks or playing in her room.
Sarah crawls out of bed already focused on fighting numerous battles at the same time in a complicated war against injustice for patients with disabilities, productivity during a pandemic, structure for three teenage girls, potential financial destruction by the American Health Care system that values profit over physical fitness while caring for a husband with pancreatic cancer.
Laurel will sleep until noon oblivious to these things.
Diving back into the silence by drowning out the bear, the baby and Che's squeals of delight, I get back to the one sided conversation which is prayer.
"Anyway God, I don't understand what's happening. I mean the last couple of years we were hit by two hurricanes, a costly lawsuit, job losses, ongoing sickness, a move and a pandemic. Don't you think adding pancreatic cancer right now is a bit much?"
God doesn't say anything.
My prayer runs out of steam with the silence so I mull things over trying to feel my way through.
From the bedroom I hear Sarah talking to her Mom who lives in New York. Che contently eats a Rice Krispy Cake staring intently at the bear and the baby decorating a Christmas Tree. Laurel's still sleeps.
"It just doesn't seem fair," I say to the silence.
Life will not be the same after Friday. At least it won't for me. Probably not for Sarah and the girls either. This is assuming I survive which the Doctor assured me is bound to happen ... unless something goes wrong. If that happens then the chances of me dying increases greatly.
I had no idea they teach Murphy's Law in Medical School!
But if everything goes right, I get to keep living, albeit in a drastically different way ... at least for the foreseeable future.
"You know God," I say staring out the windows, "this is all far worse to Sarah than me and that really doesn't seem fair either! She's done nothing."
I feel God agreeing but nothing's said one way or the other.
"Dada," Che interrupts. "I need Red Juice."
Red Juice is Hawaiian Fruit punch which our 3 year old drinks by the gallon. Grabbing her empty cup, I stumble into the kitchen, fill her sippy cup and hand it back to her.
"Sit with me Dada," she asks. Che knows I'm sick, starting every day by asking if I have to go to the Doctor. We're honest with her and she struggles to understand knowing something's wrong. I slide beside her on the sofa and she resumes watching the bear and the baby.
"It's not fair to her either," I tell God.
The noise from the television fills the room.
I reflect of the times I spoke in front of congregations ranging from grand city cathedrals to one in the church in a bar on an island ... conventions of thousands to one person sitting across the table ... in homes and hospital rooms ... blessing newborn babes or laying old bodies in the ground ... in every setting, I've presumed to speak for you while you're content keeping silent.
I said you are love personified ... always with us ... that you're not loud, boisterous or sound like clanging cymbals ... but that you're still a small voice, barely audible, only occasionally needing words to make your point.
Sarah meanders from the bedroom to check on us, sees me sitting with Che watching the bear and the baby and quietly joins us.
My phone vibrates and, hitting the icon, I read several new messages adding to the hundreds already received from people I've known all my life, scattered to and fro on the face of the earth, most I haven't spoken to in years, often decades, all sending love, prayers, words of encouragement, arranging times for meals to be delivered or get our address to send gift cards or money.
It suddenly strikes me that while I may not understand why things happen to me or see any justification in any of it, I'm certainly not alone in facing them.
Salt water wells in my eyes as I understand that without saying a word God has been letting me know all along.
I'd simply made the mistake of looking up instead of around.
It's a common mistake when it comes to God and, especially, religion.
Che lays her head in my lap.
Sarah reaches her hand out to hold mine and we exchange phones to read messages from people who are sharing love with us as best they can.
The bear and the baby sing a song and Che giggles.
The room seems full as the three of us cuddle in a corner.
"Amen," I softly say, wiping my eyes.
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