Little golden moments, like drips of honey, suspended and viscous in my days…

I am not sensing You yet, nor yet Your Presence, but the hint of it – just a feeling – vague and sweet.

The memory of a feeling, rather than the feeling itself.

Memories, reminders, of moments with You. In place of an awareness of Your presence in my present, You remind me of Your presence in my past.

Here comes one:

A syrup-slow movement in my mind…back to that long-ago evening:

A little lounge room, cosy, warm. A red-barn farm in April. Upstate New York.

The lingering comfort of a hearty casserole dinner; quiet evening in lamplit serenity. The familiar comfort of agricultural magazines in tidy piles in humble corners…And an open Bible on somebody’s glasses-nosed lap.

Ah, and there it comes now: the magic! It’s the secret of You, isn’t it? That when the roll-your-own, cigarette-paper-thin pages are allowed to breathe light and see air…You escape from them like a genie, lamp-rubbed, and You fill the room with the fragrance of our farming Father.

The inimitable assurance that Daddy’s home.

My mind redeemed, no longer wasp nest but beehive: each of these memories will fill a hexagon crypt, wax-plugged and honeycomb stored.

The darkness is just smoke-screen.

I have tasted and seen that You are good. I have been filled. You will fill me again.

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