I Often Speak With God and I Don't Mince My Words!
(Reverently, of Course)
I often speak with God,
and I don’t mince my words.
Not out of pride,
but because I figure
He already knows the words I won’t say—
and those are the ones that matter most.
I don’t bring Him polished hymns,
or prayers pre-approved by polite society.
I bring Him my gut,
my gravel,
my questions scraped raw on the edge of the world.
I’ve asked Him why evil sleeps in silken sheets
and children cry out in gutters.
I’ve asked Him where He was
when faith was used like a whip.
I’ve asked Him what kind of gardener
plants a tree He knows will be bitten.
And still,
He listens.
Not like a judge with a gavel,
but like a Father
who remembers when I was stardust
and silence
and the sigh before breath.
I don’t fear Him—
I revere Him.
And that’s why I speak plain.
Because if I can’t tell the truth to the One who is Truth,
then what is faith
but a cage lined with scripture?
No—
I speak,
and He answers in wind,
in waiting,
in the thunder behind my ribs
that says:
“Speak again. I’m still listening.”
So I will.
Because He made this tongue.
And this fire.
And this stubborn love
that still believes in Him
even when I don’t understand a damn thing He does.
I often speak with God,
and I don’t mince my words.
Reverently, of course.
But honestly.
Always honestly.