Hold your hands out in front of you and close your eyes. Ask God to put a physical representation (object) of yourself into your hands.
Easy enough, right? So I sat down crosslegged in the silent, solitudinous area I'd chosen. I put my hands out in front of me, and I silently asked God for an object. I waited. And waited. I focused my thinking; I shut out the world around me. I focused on what that object was going to be. I set my mind's eye on my hands and waited. And after about ten minutes, God gave me an object:
A set of chattering teeth.
I was shocked. I was hurt. What? I thought. This is what represents me? You have to be kidding! A set of teeth that just jabber and don't say anything? That's horrible! Tell me what this means!
And the reply was, This isn't what I think of you, Rachel. This is how you think I see you. This is how you think others see you. But this isn't really you.
Oh. OK. Then how do you see me?
I put my little hands out again, and I closed my eyes and waited for another object to appear. And in no time at all, he sent me this:
Well, not this one exactly, but it was a delicate glass heart that filled my hands. A blue one with a swirly pattern in it. And I heard, This, Rachel. This is you.
God saw right to the heart of me. Literally. He recognizes how delicate I am—how fragile my heart is. I never think anyone notices that about me. But God does. And the heart was big; it filled my hands. I'm glad God sees that I have a big heart. Again, something I assume others don't notice.
We had a moment that day, God and me. He showed me who I was in his eyes, and that means the world to me.
When was the last time you had a moment with God?