We met once a month at her house and we’d always sit on the couch with all the flowers that overlooked her garden. Her pup would sit between us on the cushions and sleep for the hour and a half we’d talk. I soaked up every single word she said in my Japanese-designed journal, furiously scribbling her every word with my mechanical pencil. Always a mechanical pencil.
Her wisdom ran deep and her gift of insight and prophecy were direct from God. She’d talk and I’d write and then often she’d pause to make a seemingly unrelated comment or ask a pointed question. But it was always related somehow and most often made tears spring from my eyes and it was as if God Himself were the one speaking. Always as if it were God.
One spring day, as the roses were blooming pink over my shoulder in the garden, I sipped iced tea and poured out my heart over a troubling issue I was facing. My heart was heavy and my mind in discord and she had been espousing all manner of wisdom and scripture related to the issue.
I sat with my head down, tears falling onto my flower-print cocktail napkin and she paused — one of those God-Speaking pauses — and she asked (in more of a statement than a question),
He’s always gentle with you, isn’t He?
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