The Silent Scream in the Oil Press

I find myself silently screaming in my bed at night. I try to make my prayers fly up and penetrate all the layers of ether between me and the angels so that the blessing bursts through and rains down on me like fresh, spring rain.

I prayed so hard once that God sent me a new job. Right out of the blue. The very next day.

This time I am not praying for anything material like a job or money. I am praying for a lessening of the pressure. I am asking God to turn it all down a notch or two.

But then it is not what I want that matters. It is what God wants that matters. He’s the chef. I’m just an ingredient. But a glimpse of the menu would make it all more bearable.

Perhaps God is trying to get something good out of me; like an oil press forcing the olives to give up their goodness. But an olive broken in the press is no longer an olive and not yet oil. And the process seems to be blocked.

Shroedinger’s a bastard.

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