I don’t always understand God. I have, like Jacob, wrestled him all night, until I’m bone-weary, until he blesses and hobbles me.

I have, like Job, sulked on my dunghill, feeling betrayed by him, scraping my sores with potsherds. I have, like David,
danced wild-limbed and ecstatic before him, scorning the shame. I have, like Paul, felt his strength in my weakness, his death in my living, his life in my dying, his glory in my plainness. I have met God in a thousand different ways, some exhilarating, some terrifying.

But boring? God is as far from boring as toadstools are from oak trees, as puddles are from oceans.