If It Never Rains

I think again about the night I asked God to make it rain.

I remember the intensity of the meditation.

The desire for proof.

The silence.

The disappointment the next morning.

And the realization that followed.

I do not know whether God heard my prayer that night.

I cannot demonstrate that the connection I experienced originated beyond my mind.

And I do not know whether any particular physical event could ever establish such a connection conclusively.

But I have come to understand something about myself.

I wanted the rain because I was afraid.

I wanted the world to reassure me that I was not alone.

I wanted an external event to remove the burden of uncertainty.

I wanted to receive love, but I also wanted the power to guarantee it.

And perhaps those desires were pulling my attention in different directions.

Today, I would approach that meditation differently.

I would not forbid myself from asking for rain. Prayer can contain requests, hopes, grief, and longing.

But I would try not to make rain the condition of my faithfulness.

I would try not to make God’s love answerable to the experiments I invent.

I would not expect an experience of peace to prove that I have reached Him.

Nor would I interpret silence as proof that He is absent.

I would simply return to the practice.

Relaxed.

Attentive.

Receptive.

Directed toward the Father.

And if fear appeared, I would not try to defeat it.

I would offer it.

If doubt appeared, I would not need to resolve it immediately.

I would offer it.

If the desire for certainty became overwhelming, I would recognize that desire without allowing it to become the center of my consciousness.

And I would continue.

Not because I know everything.

But because I have chosen my direction.

This, I believe, is the heart of The Godward Way.

Not the pursuit of a perfect emotional state.

Not the acquisition of supernatural power.

Not the destruction of desire.

Not the attempt to escape the physical world through intellectual certainty.

But the deliberate orientation of consciousness toward God the Father, while allowing everything that belongs to human existence to arise and be offered.

The will is not made free by possessing everything.

It may discover its deepest freedom when it no longer needs to possess.

The soul is not made spiritual by acquiring power.

It becomes Godward through the direction of its will.

And love is not made real by our ability to control its expression.

If love is truly a gift, then receiving it requires an openness that control cannot manufacture.

I still have questions.

I still experience doubt.

I still find myself searching for explanations, writing articles, and trying to make sense of things I cannot fully understand.

Even these final words are another attempt to preserve what I am afraid of forgetting.

But perhaps that, too, can become part of the practice.

I do not need to hide the fear from the Father.

I do not need to conquer it before I turn toward Him.

I can bring it with me.

The most radical exercise of free will may not be the power to control reality, but the freedom to surrender the need to control it.

And so, whether it rains or not, my direction remains the same.

Toward You, Father.
Even these words.
Even this fear.
I offer them to You.