Hey God, it's me OSMA

I've always been a little jealous over those people who get to hear God. Not as in a sign that He's around or faith that He's there. I'm talking live and direct hear The Man's voice. I've read enough Guideposts in my day to think maybe it's possible. In that publication alone, there are several accounts of every day people getting an important message, via God's voice, in their head. I say sure, who can forget a voice and God's would be a very hard one to ignore indeed. Then I can't help but wonder what they did so differently to rate a tete-a-tete with the Big Guy upstairs?

For the record, I'm a spiritual person, not so much religious. To me, there's a difference. To God? Doubt he's keeping score. I pray every night. Perhaps I say the wrong words or make the wrong promises but it's important for me to thank Him for letting me hang around this long and more importantly allowing me the greatest gift of my family and my friends. I'm big on thank-you notes. And usually I don't ask for anything like he's Santa Clause in his spare time. Except lately. Recently, for some unknown-even-to-me reason, I really want to hear Him. So, after I click off Housewives for the night and thank Him for my blessings, I buckle down and irreverently ask to be one of the lucky few who get to hear His voice. Then I wait. Nothing. Nothing but the shishing of Abby's sweet little legs making half circles in her sleep. Nothing but Sadie's teeth clicking together from her 30th ultra wide dogyawn of the night. But I'm a patient girl so I ask again and wait. . More resounding silence. More nothing. Husband's nose whistling halts and I freak out a little because although hearing God would be really neat, hearing Him speak through my husband's dreamy delirium would send me to an exorcist in my pjs. (Would serve me right, not sure how God resists a good prank.) Husband settles in with a small tug of the covers that I commandeered earlier. No Linda Blair tonight. No George Burns voice in my ear either. Not even a little Morgan Freeman. Nada.

So I fall asleep and dream of babies that aren't mine when I'm awake. Beautiful bald babies named Nathaniel, Edward and Natalya. I am to watch over them, in my dream life. I am their mother. I spend the rest of my dream life feeding them warm milk, bathing them in old tin washtubs and drying them with my billowy cotton skirt. Then I wake up to feel disappointed that they are not real, that they are not mine, that I do not own that skirt. I walk to the kitchen, trip on my doppy feet, and bang my hand into the refrigerator door. My body feels disproportionate and alien. I'm all Great Dane puppy in an egg carton. Must need coffee.

Within seconds, Grayson is at my feet inquiring about his milkandjuice. Probably hearing our footsteps, Abby sounds off from her crib. Sadie leaves a swatch of her downy white hair on my black yoga pants.

"Yes yes, Abby, I'm coming. Just a minute, Grayson, let me get your cups. Sadie, be patient with me momma, I'll get your breakfast in a second."


Hmmm. Oddly reminiscent of my dream life.


Then it hits me.



For weeks, I've been asking to hear His voice for my own amusement. For days, I've been begging to know His voice and hear His words in my head just because. All this time I've been daring God to show me He's there with the one thing I know I will recognize. And at that moment, when my dream life bumps into and layers over my day life, I see He returns my dare with the one thing He knows I cannot ignore.


And He's right, why speak when you can whisper?