I looked for God and did not find it, no holy nor unholy ghost, no spirits caulking apertures, no angels in the architecture.¹ I paced along each of the hallways winding all ways through my home, knocking softly on the walls. Rapt, I begged for quiet echos, signs this wall was but a mask and the face it hid was hollow, search the place once more tomorrow. An empty space might indicate some room for magic or design besides that practiced by mankind. To focus while I made the raps, I closed my eyes and parsed the taps, devoted, beholden to my task, but did not sleep lest I should miss the sound of something calling back. In time, I learned I was alone. I prayed to the silence of the stone but always nothing answered ‘no.’ For years I tried and tried again. Those walls’ respoonse was flat and thin. I heard no sound nor any talk, just drywall over cinderblock.
Notes
angels in the architecture was lifted from the song “You Can Call Me Al,” by Paul Simon.
Maybe your answer is being processed and will arrive on the wing of a moth. God surprises.