Divinity Beheld

I found myself in Sam's room, myself stretched out on her bed and she on the floor with Zeke stretched out luxuriously beside her. It was dusk, and the only light was that which emanated from the various candles lit in her room. We turned on worship music, and humbly sang along and then proceeded to pray expectantly. I glimpsed a sliver of heaven that evening, and the realization of what could be numinous caused us to tremble, and be still.

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Starting a few months ago, a new tradition was birthed in our house and a few of us girls started doing morning cuddle/prayer sessions. Basically, this consists of Emily drowsily going upstairs and then me following. We usually end up in Liz's bed, all three of us tangled up in a web of limbs and morning breath. When the weather decides to be agreeable, a morning breeze will gently find it's way through the open window and carry our prayers perhaps sinking into cracks in the pavement or maybe upwards to realms unseen. 

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For me, going to prayer night at Chicago Tabernacle is something I like to do by myself. It's quite routine for me to drive on Lake Street, with the windows down and usually I'm listening to worship music, or when the mood strikes, Arcade Fire. Sometimes, the timing is just right and the train will rumble laboriously above me and I'll feel a certain tingle of power in my veins as I increase my speed.

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I have been inhaling, devouring, call it what you will, memoirs, nonfiction, fiction, well-written articles and am currently reading John Updike's My Father's Tears. There is one short story, Morocco, and it's one of those pieces that leave you feeling transported. Can memories be experienced second-handedly?