The Day I Will Meet God

The Selfish Me.

8/29/20251 min read

The Day I Will Meet God

On the day I will meet God, I will carry no garlands, no gifts—only questions. They will burn in my chest like letters I have rewritten a thousand times but never sent.

I will stand before Him and ask:

“Why did You make me meet her? If You were to give her to me, why did You not also give me the heart strong enough, and the mind steady enough, to take care of her?”

If this life is Your play, why, in the opening act, did You make my nature careless, selfish, and only later hand me the script of responsibility— when the scene with her was already over?

You say pain is the sharpest teacher. I understand now— but why was I enrolled in that lesson so late? Why was she the price I had to pay to pass?

Of all that You have done, the most beautiful was letting me meet her. And so I must ask again— when I have lived each day in the slow ache of her absence, why have You not whispered to her what You see in me now? Why not tell her that even if You are taking my whole life at once, You are also taking me piece by piece each day, in the way You keep her away?

Have You told her that I miss her not as a memory, but as if a limb of my soul has been torn away?

Have You told her that I want nothing more than to hold her, to say: I know I disgusted you, I know I ruined the garden we could have tended, and I am sorry— sorry enough to spend the rest of my days facing whatever storms may come, together, without selfishness?

Do You tell her how life has drained from me— bit by bit, shard by shard— because You kept her away?

And then, perhaps when my voice is quiet, I will thank You. For she was the proof of what true love feels like— wild, delicate, irreplaceable.

And when I leave Your presence, I will make one request for the next birth:

Make me responsible from the very first breath. Make me meet her again. And let me give her, from that first day, every drop of love she once gave me— and more, until my last.