‘Knock, knock,’ Paul whispers, ‘Dear God…’ I could not hear the words any longer, it must have been the wind. Paul is facing a tree, he has an apple balanced on his head, and is not moving. I am not suppose to watch for 30 seconds, somehow I am to occupy myself, but then if I still was curious Paul said I could look.
I am writing this in that 30 seconds, I can hardly wait to look. What will I see? Will the horizon have turned orange and red? The leaves of the tree fallen to the ground? What can one expect in prayer? What can one expect in prayer, when it’s the flesh that is hitting God’s ears. Perhaps Paul will be sitting, soon, the apple still nested in his hair.