Conversations with God

It’s raining in Chicago. That heavy, cinematic rain that makes you question your whole life. Thunder’s rolling in like an unpaid bill, and the streetlights are flickering like even they’re unsure about where this is going.

I’m inside, sipping stale coffee, wearing a hoodie that’s seen more rejection emails than laundry cycles. Outside my window sits Greg — the neighborhood raccoon who, at this point, might be my spiritual accountability partner. He’s just staring. No blinking. No scurrying. Just a wet, furry embodiment of “really, bro?”

So naturally, I look up at the sky and whisper:

“God, if You can hear me… blink twice.”

Silence.

“Okay, cool, cool. I’ll take that as a yes with bad reception. Are You proud of me?”

Thunder rumbles softly in the distance. Not loud, not threatening. More like a divine throat clear.

“Okay, follow-up question,” I say, sipping dramatically, “What’s the plan? Like… big picture. Because currently I’m unemployed, talking to a raccoon, and using LinkedIn as a diary. Is this the plot twist or the blooper reel?”

A gust of wind slams a garbage can lid shut across the alley. Greg flinches. I don’t.

“I mean, if I’m being character-developed, could we maybe speed this arc up a little? Like… can we skip to the part where I get the job, the book deal, and maybe a dental plan?”

And then, out of nowhere—lightning. Big, cinematic, tree-shaking lightning. The kind that makes you reconsider every sarcastic prayer you’ve ever mumbled under your breath.

“Oh. So we’re doing signs now?” I say. “Cool, cool. Just checking — was that a yes, or a holy ‘watch your tone’?”

Then, I swear I hear it. Not out loud, but in that weird, soul-level frequency only heard during storms, heartbreak, and traffic jams:

GOD: “You asked if I was proud.”

ME: “…Right. And?”

GOD: “I never stopped being proud. But that doesn’t mean I’ll always say yes when you want Me to.”

ME: “Even when I’ve done everything right?”

GOD: “Especially then. I’m not just writing a story that rewards effort. I’m writing one that requires trust.”

Cue another rumble of thunder. Greg sneezes. It’s oddly profound.

ME: “But I’m tired. Like… deeply tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep or snacks.”

GOD: “You’re not tired from failing. You’re tired from growing. That’s what stretching feels like.”

ME: “So what’s next?”

Silence.

Not the cold, empty kind — the peaceful, “I’ve already told you enough for today” kind.

And suddenly I realize: maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe God doesn’t always give us the five-year plan.

Maybe sometimes He gives us enough light for the next step… and a raccoon to keep us humble.

So I look at Greg. He blinks once. Maybe in agreement. Maybe because he’s tired of my emotional monologues.

And I whisper one last thing to the sky:

“Okay. One step at a time. But I’m gonna need You to walk with me. And maybe send snacks.”

No lightning this time. Just rain.

And somehow, that’s enough.