Mishalariah wrung her hands as Spirit swiveled back and forth in the blue velvet chair.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“She asked me to tell her my name.”
Spirit stopped swiveling and leaned forward. His eyes were sparkling. “You told her?”
Mishalariah looked down at her twisting fingers. “Yes.”
“Did she understand?”
“No, she didn’t. But that’s not why I’m upset.” Mishalariah’s eyes were glassy. “I should not have told her. My name is a sacred mystery.” She shook her head, her shoulders slumping. “My carelessness will not edify her; it will only confuse her. She’s nowhere close to understanding it yet.”
Spirit rose from the blue velvet chair and embraced her. “What compelled you to tell her?”
Mishalariah shuddered. “She caught me off guard. Out of nowhere, she asked, ‘Guardian angel, the one who speaks life to me. What is your name?’ Without thinking, I answered, ‘My name is Mishalariah, the same as yours.’”
Spirit nodded and smiled, his eyes gleaming and fixed on a point somewhere far beyond the open door.
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A Speculative Memoir
In a 1989 journal entry, I poured out my dashed dreams to God. Those few precious moments became a watershed event in an unfolding narrative that began ten years before when I turned my back on God. Turning my back on God did many things, most of them sad, but foremost it made me forget who I was. But there was someone who never forgot. Someone who neve…