...of a plea

I tried again. My prayer was too short. God was a stickler for protocol.
I laid it on thicker.
Oh my God, creator of heaven and earth and all that goes into cauliflower gratin, unharden your heart.
Will you let your Naths, your Matts, your Grégoires go on floundering?
What will you do for Ernest, Violette, and Pandora?
And what for Albert?
And for Franz, and for Luce?
Nothing? Really, you’ll do nothing?
Not even for Agathe and Suzie?
For Agathe and Suzie at least?
At least don’t abandon Agathe and Suzie!
God oh God!
For pity’s sake!
My voice swelled, and I looked around for updrafts, hoping to heighten my prayer’s chances of reaching its goal, of being heard up top, of finding the Ear of the Almighty in His celestial retreat.
No answer.
It was like asking the tiger to have fewer fangs, fewer claws, fewer black stripes on its orange fur, fewer roars. Nothing would come of my complaint. Not on the agenda. I might as well have demanded an extra arm, my two hands struggling to describe and define in the air what the third would have grasped without effort: that’s what prayer is, and it’s swallowed up by the silence.

[The Author and Me, Chevillard, É]