Dear Beloved,

Epistle: Tuned Toward the Source

There are devices made to be hyper-tuned to a specific frequency, such as a seismograph—

perhaps less surprising that man can function in much the same way when oriented toward the Source.

It is always about orientation, an attitude of the heart, if you will.

We can only receive when He says we are ready.

But think on this, if you would:

A mind fully focused on Him as the lens through which creation—cosmological, celestial, and Divine—dances hand in hand, revealing the wonders of His expansive depths.

What would a mind like that unveil when conjoined with Your Holy Spirit?

If I, though dust, can conceive space expanding into infinity,

then how much more would a mind educated and truly capable perceive of Your Hiddenness?

I shiver at the thought, knowing how close I have come to unraveling joyfully before You over the last decade.

It all seems to me as pungent as those toasted Indian curry spices I love—memories still vivid with that heated haze.

You have pickled me, Father—spoiling me as You do without ceasing, even when I fumble as I so often do,

serving me as a garnish to Fayetteville.

I do not need to ask, because I know—

but our friends might want to hear it.

Why do You love me as You do?

You tell me in the whispers between silences.

You utter it with that stable surety buried deep in my core.

You ground me in Your Presence and lavish Your active attention upon me.

You tell me most by what is not said as much as by what is.

Still, You have whispered it a million ways beyond knowing:

We are all Beloved.

So You know why I call You Beloved back, obviously—

but perhaps they need to know also.

I call You Beloved because You have seen my buried anguish and deepest sorrows,

and first called me what I later learned You always were to me.

I call You Beloved because I recognize the texture of Your hand

as You lovingly chastise me for my good.

It felt instantly like home, and the fragrance like fresh cherry pipe tobacco—

recognition realigning with You.

I confess I’ve never felt alone since that moment.

Lonely, yes—but never alone.

Anyway, this is my love letter to You, Beloved.

Yours always,

dust