One night, under a waning moon and clouded sky, I turned to G-d and asked if He loves me. He said, “Yes.”

I looked at the depths of blackness surrounding me, at breath that misted in the ocean of night, at dreams flung asunder and pieces of hearts shattered like broken glass and ice on the ground, and asked Him how I could know.

He unsheathed a million stars, revealed the sparkle of diamonds in the cracked pieces by my feet, drawing a wondrous breath from my throat.

“That’s how you know.”

I showed Him my heart, how bruised and blistered it was, how scarred with loss and grief and fear.

He took it from me and gently caressed it, showing me courage and resilience and purpose.

I told Him how it thuds with sadness and pain; He told me to listen, how its beat echoes hope.

I asked Him why, if He loves me, He would not give me everything I ask for, and He told me He loves me too much for that.

I asked why it rains, why storms brew, why the world suffers, why the planet is soaked with blood, with tears.

There was silence. This time, I heard no response.

I stood and I waited, shivering in the stillness, as dew wrapped itself around my feet and the night began to break apart.

And when a thin flaming line crossed the horizon, I saw the answer He never gave.

As morning stoked light and warmth into the earth, I looked up once more, into the glow of golden sun, and told G-d that now I understood.

I thought He would smile down, that He would rejoice in the statement, but His whisper was sad when He responded, “But my child, there is no greatness in seeing by daylight.”

Night fell again, too fast, extinguishing the light of faith and blocking the horizon from view. I stared into the blackness; even the stars were hiding. I closed my eyes and pictured sunrise. The sunrise that was, the sunrise that would be. I opened my eyes and beheld darkness. Comfort fled.

And I wanted so much to know, to be sure, but I wasn’t, so I turned to G-d again and asked if He loves me.

He said, “Yes.”

I looked around, through tears that blurred the moon and clouds, and melted, hot and weary, on my cheeks, and asked Him how I could know.

And this time, He didn’t show me starlight. He showed me myself. And He said, “Because you came back again. Because you asked.”

The wind rushed by, it froze the teardrops on my cheeks, and I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter, because now I knew.

The next night, I turned my face to the sky and let moonlight turn the contours of my face to shadow.

I felt night’s icy fingers stroke my spine, and listened as the sigh of the wind played mournful chords in the air.

I reached out and touched the deep, paralyzing, blackness, embroidered with tiny diamonds that could never illuminate the world, but that shone nonetheless, faithful, valiant.

And I didn’t ask.

I just said, “I know You love me.”

And the world remained dark, it was cold and lonely and ink-black, but this time, He smiled down.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 613)