It’s been about six years since God paid me a call.

                  It was late summer, before sleep. We were home from Rome. I was on my work-couch, reading or writing something. Jane was in bed. Dog-pal Henry hadn’t entered our lives. I was tranquil, occupied, in no evident distress. I had not been thinking about God or inviting Him. Often I’d wished for Him – for guidance, reassurance – but this was not one of those times. More than once I’d prayed to Him, to no avail, but not now. If you’d asked, I’d have said I was beyond needing God, comfortable with my mortality, grateful for my chance, no longer driven to “prove” myself.

                  And there He was.

                  A palpable, unmistakable presence, a warmth, sweetness, not quite visible, but utterly convincing. I did not “believe” in Him, any more than you believe in the sun when it warms or a blade when it cuts. Whether or not I accepted Him, He was there. I stared, engrossed, honored by His attention. He did not rebuke or counsel me specifically, no micro-manager. He just wanted me to know He was present and observing me, so I should act accordingly.

                  Then He was gone.

                  He has not returned. I don’t expect Him. Once was enough. Enough to implant Him in consciousness, where he glows like a forever lightbulb. I know what He wants – for me and from me. I do my best to obey, not from fear, but because His direction makes sense. He asks me only to be my best – toward others and my work: to give my life my all, then be calm and glad. I have frequent recourse to Him, it’s so easy to forget oneself.

                  At first I was shy about this episode, reluctant to tell even Jane. Many would have diagnosed a mental break, cause for concern, but it wasn’t at all. He changed me, yes, but as sugar sweetens coffee or salt releases flavor. The bitter tastes better, though its nature has not changed.

                  Almost blushing, I told intimates, then wrote about it, accepting this event among my facts. Friends questioned. Was it an hallucination? Possibly – but how was I to tell? That a dream’s a dream makes it no less real and I wasn’t asleep. Was it the Christian God I’d been assigned initially? How could I know, He wore no badge. Since He did not insist I conform to particular doctrines or laws, I took Him for the godhead, from whom all gods flowed, but this was to attach speculation to knowing. Why was He he? Because He was. Did He say anything? Did He touch me? Maybe, I shrugged – does smoke touch you? Does light?

                  How did He differ from Conscience, probed a brainy friend. 

                  Conscience, I tried to explain, arises from Reason. The Golden Rule makes sense if you think about it. But the glory of the world, the preciousness of being, and impulse to praise make no sense. One cannot argue one’s way to Hallelujah. This God did not contradict Reason but carried me beyond, into realms Reason distrusts.

                  My God introduced me to the company of other God-seekers. I no longer scoffed. Prayer no longer struck me as evasion. If God is real to you, God is real. To each their own.

                  Why remember this now? Why these words?

                  “I felt like it,” while true, explains nothing. The more solace we require, the more urgent God. These are terrible times, the most stressful I’ve known. “God,” said the psalmist, “is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

                  Amen to that.