Five Minute Friday: Messenger

I used to think God was talking to me. Sometimes in that indefinable, still, small voice, and sometimes through messengers.

The messengers were varied. An old grandmother who lived in a deserted place, chain smoking her way to wisdom. A holy nun. Sinners, and saints. Sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference. And I’m pretty sure I still can’t.

Maybe it’s more about the message than the messenger. Maybe it’s not.

Maybe I’m just afraid to admit that I don’t know if any of it was real. Maybe none of it was real.

But if I tell you that, what happens to my message? Do I quit being a messenger?

I used to think that messengers were like telegram delivery boys. Smartly dressed and knocking on your door, clutching that small piece of paper that spelled out a carefully worded message of doom. Or delight.

Now it’s just as likely to be voicemail. But I’m far more likely to ignore it. There was something about those boys that made them hard to ignore.

Like God.