When I first stepped into a church I was immediately uncomfortable. My mother taught me not only how to pray, but how to talk directly with God. I still have my childhood prayer rug that rests behind me in front of my fireplace. A small Oriental rug cast in hues of crimson, white, grey, and black. Resembling an eye, a universe, it always reminds me where God resides within my world. Inside. My divine spark. Connection not only to God, but to everyone, everywhere. Those that have passed, and those who are yet to come. Why was I uneasy as I passed through the heavy, wooden doors of the local Southern Baptist church? I knew. I always knew. I was different ever since my soul was breathed into its temporary terrestrial body. Born four weeks early, God’s plans for me couldn’t wait.
I always understood. I never questioned. A direct line of divine communication, never severed, even in the darkest hours. Before I had reached the age of three, God whispered to me while I slept “boot camp.” He told me never to forget that this world serves as a training ground. Not all will pass on gaining further closeness to the source. A divine calling, not achieved through study, but by never forgetting my purpose. Love. Anything else that falls short of the highest vibrational energy does just that, it’s cast into the chasm. A prison within the mind of those who aren’t ready to understand the truth. I didn’t need a mediator, a conduit, in order to tap directly into my angelic home. I certainly didn’t need a church. More importantly, why would I even want one? A filter.
I still have my childhood prayer rug that rests behind me in front of my fireplace. It’s an oriental rug with hues cast in crimson, white, grey, and black. Resembling an eye, a universe, it always reminds me where God resides within my world. Inside. My divine spark.