I am not the wisest of children, &I expect You to come in rushing wind, &loud sounds, and fantastic displays of light &noise &magnitude. I do not find it half so believeable when You come to me through other women, &sweet words, and flowers, and fellowship, & "you`re too tender"s, & not behaving as I ought. I say that I want closeness with the Lord, but search me and know that I am often found lying quietly in the evening, waiting for the lightning, when He is already gently raining love &trust over me.
&that`s all I got. In a feeble attempt to mimick Buchner, I stretched my hands out, &whispered "Please, Lord," over &over. And do you know what He told me? He told me that He loved me, &He told me to trust Him.