I can’t do Godless mornings anymore. I know because I tried. I found myself at 53 years old, sweeping the cobwebs out of my head and wondering where I stood with God. For a moment I was reliving a Godless morning in Levittown, a kid who knew no God surrounded by families who centered their lives around their God and their churches and synogogues. I was making the movements of that boy, getting my own breakfast with nobody else up in the house, planning on my moves to bring my toasted english muffin and my glass of milk to the easy chair in front of the television set.
But I said, “Let me try this in the present.”
I quickly realized that it was now impossible. I could doubt my place with God. I could doubt His love for me. But there is no way that there could be another Godless morning, day, evening or night, not after the life I have lived.
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