Psalm 53:1 tells us, "The fool says in his heart, there is no God." That scripture makes me feel like a small, white, female Mr. T. I read it and think, "I pity the fool."
One time I sat in an adult Sunday School class and the teacher said, "If you think God comes to you in visions in the bathtub, you are certifiably crazy." I never went back. Know why? 'Cause I don't see dead people, I see God.
I see visions of me on a potting table, made of old barnwood, with a one inch lip on all four sides, for my fluids, just in case. It's out in an open field and it's a sunny day. I look like a life-sized, girl version of the board game, Operation.
God stands next to the potting bench. His hands are working inside me. Tweeking a spleen. Polishing a wishbone. My friend I ask God questions to said it sounds like part of the Song of Solomon. I like the translation that says, "You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride, a secluded spring, a hidden fountain."
Another time, I saw God hold my heart. Actually, I just saw his hand. It looked like the giant hand chairs outside of Cool Ridge on High Street. The ginormous hand was holding my heart and my heart was huge too and it was aqua. God knows aqua is my favorite color.
When I think about God it's like I have to set off a M-80 in my brain. Not to hurt it but to clear out the junk--the recipes, pin numbers, and vocab lists from high school. I have to do that to even begin to think on God. He made and he knows every person--past, present and future. He is aware of every thought, prayer and deed they will ever come up with before they ever do. He intimately sees the detail of every creature, every cell. He knows the greatest thing beyond my peewee comprehension and he knows the least thing ever--sub, sub, sub-atomic stuff.
Sometimes when I pray, I picture God and Jesus and heaven. Do you ever do that? There was a lady mystic who did the same thing, centuries ago. I read about her in an A.W. Tozer book. I'm glad I'm not alone. I spend a lotta time wondering if I'll be able to see the Spirit in heaven. Will he be an aqua silvery mist, hovering over us all?
Some believers poopoo me trying to envision God, saying I'm trying to create my own God like that guy who wrote The Shack. To them I say, am I so very different from Moses? He wanted to see God too and Bible scholars call him great. I just wanna see whatever God will show me, even if it's his back side.
Sometimes I picture myself up in heaven with God and Jesus. I sit criss-cross, applesauce on the floor of the throne room. In fact, I sit snuggled right up to them. My left arm is looped around God's right leg and my right arm is looped around Jesus' left leg. Don't ask me if their legs are flesh, spirit or polished bronze. They just are. God and Jesus pet my hair as I take it all in--endless worship, passionate intercession. Crowns are flying everywhere and those wild, flying creatures--all eyeballs, wings and praise? I come undone.
One time . . . no . . . there's been lots, Jesus asked me to dance. We danced on the crystal sea. I think maybe it was the Sea of Galilee. When we dance it's like I'm a cross between a kindergartener and an eighth grader at her first dance. The kindergartener part of me stands on my daddy's feet to be taller, to let him lead. The eighth grader in me laces my fingers behind my date's neck and melts against him, longing to be one. And then the best thing happens. A hole opens in my chest and his. And my heart beats inside him and his heart beats inside me. We are one.
I'm not making this stuff up. I saw it all with the eyes of my heart. It's not imagination or fantasy like some will no doubt say. Those people who put God in a wet matchbox? I pity them too.