I love this song.

"Question" (verb): to inquire, doubt

My mom has always teased me about my knack for getting into trouble. You see, I have a problem with asking too much. Wanting to know everything and why. 

Once, we were at the hair salon and I asked the stylist how old she was. Besides my mother being mortified, the lady gave me a lecture on how it was rude to ask a woman their age. Another time, we were at the doctors office, because my mom had a nasal infection. As the doctor preformed his examination, I asked him if he liked looking up people's noses for a living. That wasn't too good either. A year ago my dad went in for an cat-scan to make sure his MS wasn't getting worse. As I waited for him, I asked a lady how she was doing because she looked a little downcast. I got her life story for an hour and a half (no joke-- her father was dying and her brother was a truck driver with three kids and he hadn't gotten married yet, and she wasn't sure what he was going to do with his life. They lived in Iowa). 

Of course, when I was younger, it wasn't always apparent to me that there were proper and improper questions to ask. I looked at everything with the innocent curiosity that overcomes every child and opened my mouth whenever it seemed necessary. That curiosity never left, but it has become increasingly clear that I am no longer able to ask the questions that I feel need to be answered. When I do ask, they are pushed aside, ignored, or answered so vaguely that I might as well have never at asked at all. Or worse, I am given the reasons why I shouldn't be asking. 

Is it too much to want the truth? To need it? To thrive off of it? No one seems to have any answers. Yes, I know, God has all the answers I will ever need. But God doesn't seem to be flashing any neon signs in my face or even sending coded messages in bottles. Has anyone ever thought that maybe God would give me answers by speaking through other people? But if these people refuse to listen to or answer my questions, then I'm no better off than I was at the beginning. 

My parents say I am too gullible. I don't think this is true. I never take anything at face value. When someone tells me something, I always question it and act like what they're saying is a lie to test their truth. It makes it seems like I believe the opposite of what they're saying, but that's not it. It is only that I never want to be the one to stumble because I took someone's words for granted. I want something solid to stand on; save you're jell-o for kindergarten. 

I have big questions about God. About living out my faith. Questions about church and people I love and "how to deal" or react or speak. I have questions about honesty. I have questions about why no one wants to listen to my questions. Am I annoying? Am I stupid? Are the answers in front of my face? If so, please, don't hesitate to call me out on my ignorance, I beg of  you! 

When I don't know what I'm dealing with I become afraid. If I have truth in answers, I can conquer almost anything. All of the puzzle pieces will fit together so neatly if I can gather them up. An incomplete puzzle drives me crazy. 

Why did you really leave?

What does the authority really think? Why call?

When does He/It overtake you? 

How can I be so sure?

What defines it? 

Who are you and why can't I reach you?

What gives you this power/do you really have it?

Revival?

Why don't I have answers.

Why doesn't someone be REAL. 

Boxes.

So you're standing outside of this box, ok? Just imagine it for a second. It's not too big nor too small. Probably the size of a microwave. And it's glass. Hand-blown glass, like the expensive Italian kind, and it's painted with marble-like swirls of intrinsic color, exquisite ocean blues and greens, autumnal mauves and sun-burnt oranges, faerie delicate rose and that creamy color that mimics the inside of a seashell. The colors are moving, swirling and glittering, almost like gases but thicker, more solid, like oil, maybe. You're watching it curiously, longingly. 

The longer you look, the bigger it gets. Higher it towers over you, wider it stretches aside you, until you realize that you're not standing in front of it but on top of it, on the very edge, and its flat top is unfolding before you like a crystalline galaxy of numerous shades. Tiny stars wink beneath your bare feet as you slide effortlessly, yet cautiously, towards your unknown destination. You realize that this surface is broken up into tiles. Together, they make an endless picture of the universe. Suns and moons, comets and astroids revolve and whisk away as beams of gold explode far, far away. You look down at the tile you're standing on and jump a little as the scrambled colors morph to make a scene from someone's life. 

A little girl is sitting on a park bench with her mom. She's holding a doll close to her chest, and she's watching an old man sitting beneath a nearby bridge, feeding the pigeons. 

"Why is he always here when we come?" she asks.

"He  probably doesn't have anywhere else to go."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. He's poor."

You move away from the tile. The scene dissolves instantly. A few feet more and you stop and look down again. 

He's sitting by himself in his bedroom. On the night stand next to his bed, his cell phone is buzzing. He let's the machine pick up it. 

"Two more hours and it's dawn," he tells himself. "The last two hours."

He scribbles a quick note, signs it, and places it delicately on his pillow. 

You step off the tile before watching the rest. Tile by tile, and the lives flash past. Some are happy, and some are sad. Some make you angry, and some make you laugh. Suddenly, you hear something. Up to this point, there was no sound. But now there is a faint, dim tinkling. You strain your ears. Symphonies of violin cascade and meld with a flute in a melody unlike any other. Flowers bloom in fields of emerald, water rushes in rivulets into waterfalls that create immense rainbows, flecks of rain like so many pieces of diamond crashes, all coming out of this warm, intense, brilliant music.  You're eyes grow large and suddenly you feel a great warmth melting down your face. You realize that you're crying. You don't understand. You'll never understand. You're so full that you feel like overflowing. Your throat is choked and this beautiful, haunting melody envelopes you, the surface of the glass box builds walls of blazing color around you, and you let yourself go into the tiles of many, many memories. 

The memory box. And the little ballerina at the center endlessly twirls.