The Father let me go. He says, “It’s time you find your way.” “I don’t want to leave this safety net. This is all I’ve known.” The Son speaks, “There’s another way. An organic path of listening. Go.” “I don’t want to go. In this place, I know the rules. I know what is expected of me. I know what prayers to say.” Another voice rises. Her voice is lilt, “This is not your place any longer. Come with me.” I — argue with all my might. blame with all my spite. sit with all my fright. Then, a speck of light. This glow isn’t a simple joy, a glorious pleasure. This glare urges me to unravel everything I think I know about God. This ray shines on the difficult, has me on my knees inspecting disappearance of Lilith, intuition of Rahab, truth about snakes. My eyes open to systemic toxicity of the ground I stand upon. I mourn the twisted history I’ve been given. No, this lemon aroma isn’t all bright beam. It cleans out clutter within my soul space. Here, I’m asked to bow to what culture considers strange: dreams, symbols, energy, shadow beings Most days — I want to go back, to the way things were, to black and white ease. When all I had to do was arrive and follow another person’s directions. Who is God? Who is this Divine Love — that urges me to look under rocks and behind trees? The days of dogma are over. I cannot simply stand and follow prayers of the Roman Empire. Sing songs to a King. Because, now I know, there were days before Constantine – when hieroglyphics were honored, when women wrote on cave walls, when people gathered in circle, when feminine hands played drums, when mother’s breasts were full of reverence, when holy clay held ancient ways of being. Now I know, the Father let me go, to be a voice for the mother. And, there is no turning back.