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I met God in a dream last night. I told Him about how my heart hurt, but sometimes I was too afraid to look. "I love with dreams made of glass and a heart that is full but leaks like cracked clay," I said. I held out to Him with gripped fingertips a box made of splintered wood full of disappointment. I can't tell you how disappointment looks like, but sometimes in dreams, you just know. (And trust me, you can feel it seep into your bones, and it lingers in places even sleep can't reach.) The lid could not close and its contents brimmed, spilled, and stirred. I awoke before He spoke, but I remember the pouring of liquid light but not whether the box ever left my hands.