Last night I prayed in the closet. I guess saying I prayed in the closet kinda thwarts the purpose behind praying in the closet, but whatever. That’s where I was.
I prayed about connecting, about how I wanted to be open to God and how I hoped God would be open to me. I admitted I’m not sure if God intends for me to be a writer. But I said every bit of me just wants to speak His message, to enter into the Word and speak the Word I inhabit, the Word that—crazy thought—inhabits me.
Anyway, at some point in that prayer, I became convinced I wasn’t in the closet alone. So convinced I refused to open my eyes lest I see what was in the closet with me. I pictured an angel, just a guy really, sitting beneath Justin’s suit pants, listening to me with his knees pulled up to his chest.
Finally, after maybe a full minute of apprehension, I opened my eyes. No guy.