A Rich Man

What else is there?

Artisans painted my ceiling. I flew them in. I am a rich man. I am the epitome of success. I am philanthropic. I am loved. I am liked. Adored. Held to high esteem. I use strange words to be intriguing.

It's not enough.

Why isn't it?

I lay on my back and gaze at the sky, trying to look through it. I have a friend who suspects there is something on the other side. 

Is that where they hide enough?

In a pocket of terror, impatience, and not caring, not really worrying what will happen, in a flash, I ask. What is it? What am I on the hunt for? I shrug. And what is on the hunt for me? I laugh, outwardly, but inside I am crying. Please, God, be real.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, though I'd hoped, and with a flash like mine, like mine, I see.

Oh no. The simpletons can't be right. You can't be that God. Not Him!

But He is. The God of the Jews. The Christian God. Jesus. I thought I knew everything, but I did not know this. 

Finally, though, I know. And my life will never be the same overstuffed emptiness again. I won't ever be that again. I am weeping now, a mix of relieved and overwhelmed, free and aware of all that I have been freed from.