When I first realized God was speaking to me, I wasn't afraid. I felt like maybe I should be, like maybe that would be the logical response, but I had heard people in town talking about God speaking to their children. So it felt natural. Right.

I didn't know if I should tell my Mother. I asked God for help, but though I knew He was speaking to me, I could never really understand it. He spoke in hums, in taps, in the songs of birds that thought I wasn't listening. I sometimes understood a message, an intention, but He very rarely replied to me. But I know He must have chosen me. I know there must have been a reason.

When I told my Mother, She wasn't concerned. She wasn't angry. I wish She had been. No. She laughed, at first. She assumed I was joking. And then, when I talked in depth about what I had been experiencing, Her expression changed. She didn't feel sympathy. She wasn't amused. She was afraid.

I felt sick. I begged Her to look at me like Her child, to stop staring at me like I had done something to hurt Her. It was as if She thought I had chosen to hear God, that I was doing so out of some sick spite against Her. I tried to tell Her that wasn't the case. She screamed at me, told me I was an idiot to believe such things. I knew She was afraid.

I still don't know how to get Her to look at me like a person. Sometimes, I don't think I want Her to.

It's becoming clear that feeling is always a lie.