Greg Paul - Close Enough to Hear God Breathe: The Great Story of Divine Intimacy

PRAISE FOR
CLOSE ENOUGH TO
HEAR GOD BREATHE

This book has a heart that beats louder than most any book youll ever read. But instead of leaving me breathless, Close Enough to Hear God Breathe left my breath and heart beating together and in sync with voices beyond myself. What higher compliment can you pay an author?

LEONARD SWEET, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR,
PROFESSOR (DREW UNIVERSITY, GEORGE FOX UNIVERSITY),
AND CHIEF CONTRIBUTOR TO SERMONS.COM

My dear friend Greg does much more than remind us all that, indeed, ones heart is the wellspring of life. His shocking transparency, courageously tender words, and complete longing for God paint an indelible picture of what it means to truly know the quenching of a souls thirst. I know no oneauthor, artist, orator, leader, servant, or friendmore consistent, or gifted, in mixing and spreading the colors of this glorious depiction, than my brother Greg. Close Enough to Hear God Breathe is not simply a wonderful book; it is a work of art.

TIM HUFF, MULTI-AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
AND ILLUSTRATOR OF DANCING WITH DYNAMITE,
BENT HOPE, AND THE CARDBOARD SHACK BENEATH THE BRIDGE;
AND FOUNDER AND EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF THE HOPE EXCHANGE

Greg Pauls writing always challenges me in surprising ways. He uses everyday experiences to stretch your thinking about God, faith, and community. In Close Enough to Hear God Breathe, Gregs writing is lyrical and his insights are profound. I recommend it.

MARK SANBORN, NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING AUTHOR
OF THE FRED FACTOR AND UP, DOWN OR SIDEWAYS

While theological writing is frequently obscure, biographical writing is often egocentric, leading us to the sad situation where we are not drawn very far into Gods story or our own. However, as he has done in the past, Greg Paul has been sufficiently transparent about his own life so that we hear Gods heartbeat. In the process we are impacted by a carefully woven tapestry of biography and theology.

DR. ROD WILSON, PRESIDENT, REGENT COLLEGE

CLOSE
ENOUGH to
HEAR GOD
BREATHE

CLOSE
ENOUGH to
HEAR GOD
BREATHE

The Great Story of Divine Intimacy

GREG PAUL

2011 by Greg Paul

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

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Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are from THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION. 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Paul, Greg, 1958-

Close enough to hear God breathe / Greg Paul.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4002-0300-0

1. Spiritual life--Christianity. I. Title.

BV4501.3.P3857 2011

248.4--dc22

2010047871

Printed in the United States of America

11 12 13 14 15 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my family, of coursemy
parents, my brothers, my children, and my Maggie.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE
RAE AND ME, BREATHING

S hes a beautiful young woman now, my daughter Rachel: tall and willowy, with long waves of mahogany hair; the kind of translucent, lightly freckled Irish skin that seems at times to be lit from within. Dark eyes, her mothers eyes, shining behind generous fronds of lash. Small pearly teeth, one of which is charmingly crooked, lending her frequent laugh an added visual giddiness. She didnt want to get that tooth fixed when she was of the age when such things are done. She liked her teeth the way they were, the way they are, thank you very much, and has never regretted it.

Rachel has three brothers. The two who are older, when she was a baby and would come crawling into their shared bedroom, among the carefully constructed toy villages or forts made of furniture and blankets, would shout, Look out! Here comes Hurricane Rae! The four of them are in their twenties now, and watching and listening to them when theyre together is one of the great pleasures of my life.

Theyre tender and goofy, speaking in the layered codes of a lifetime of intimately shared experience. Family difficulties and sorrows have forged an unspoken loyalty among them. They giggle and poke each other like toddlers. They will deny it loudly, and joke about it when they read this, but they clearly adore one another.

Its axiomatic, I suppose, that a father has a special bond with his daughter, especially if she, like Rae, is the only one in a family of boys. The fact that she was the first girl born to the Paul family in more than sixty years might strengthen that some. (My father, who had three boys himself, then watched a steady stream of grandsons issue forth, didnt think it could be done. Its more than eighty years now, and two more boys, but shes still the only girl. And Rachel is utterly comfortable with that.)

But I think the real foundation of my particularly intimate relationship with Rae is that as an infant she would not nurse. Her three brothers did, enthusiastically. But she was indolent, uninterested, or maybe just stubborn. Try as she might, her mom couldnt get that long, skinny baby to latch on. The wonderful result was that Rachel was the only one of my four children I got to feed regularly as an infant.

I was a carpenter then. Id arrive home weary and dirty, have a quick shower and change into clean clothes, then take the baby while her brothers played and supper was being prepared.

After warming the bottle, Rae and I would start off in a big pine rocking chair with thick, tweedy cushions. While she wouldnt nurse, she took the bottle easily enough. Rocking gently. My daughter sucking greedily at first, then with an intermittent slack-mouthed draw; snuffling, burping, tiny sighs. Pink porcelain cheeks, fat violet eyelids at half-mast. A light brown milkweed fluff of hair on her round perfect head. The minor eruption down below.

Returning from the changing table, we move to the couch. I stretch out, my heels propped on the arm, head on a cushion, with the snugly wrapped package of baby on my chest. Rachel, my daughter, rising and falling gently with each breath I take. Her own breath is so light I can only hear it in those odd moments when the clatter from the kitchen and the chatter of my sons stop at the same time.

Looking down past my own cheeks, I can see the top of her head, the stub of nose peeking out. The pulse of the soft spot on her sweet little noggin slows down, and together we drift into sleep. Resting together on a greater chest, close enough to hear God breathing.

Part One
THE HEART OF
THE MATTER

ONE
THE VOICE FROM ABOVE