And I grew up in a
little white house on a
little white street
and every sunday we drove to church -
I can still feel every
bump on the road, still smell every
room of that church
and my whole life,
I was searching, seeking, looking, walking, running
everywhere I could
you see I was trying,
trying to find God
and I looked for God in the mountains
majestic and strong.
but their snow-peaked tops didn’t sing for me.
and I looked for God by the river
the one that ran right outside my little town
I listened for him in
the running, weeping waters
I listened for him in the
giggling rain that fell on my roof
in the humming wind that ran
through the trees outside my bedroom window
I tried seeing God in the forest
trees - bold, never apologizing for their place, their stance
but their roots caught my ankles,
like bones reaching from the grave
so I went to the city,
thought I’d find God in the eyes of the homeless
like that last poet I heard so eloquently speak.
yet I looked and i
looked and no matter how many pairs of eyes i looked into,
I could not find him.
so then, I ask, where is he?
pulse beating faster and faster, blood racing
WHERE IS MY GOD?
Blink. Breath. Be still.
And I realized I don’t know.
I can write some sweet shit about feeling God in the rain or the wind.
Or the birds melodious song or the breeze in my fucking face.
But where is he really?
Is he in the war?
blood running from the mother’s gouged
eyes onto her child’s
hands. soldier screaming for
breath, realizing that his only hope for
life was stolen. taken with that one wrong step, that
one wrong move.
and the starvation and famine,
fire and flood. is he
in any of those??
And i’m sitting in the library of a million books -
all who claim to be able to
answer my question
but they’re all just sitting there, sitting, sitting, sitting.
not breathing or moving or being.
just claiming, hypothesizing, ---- thinking they know it all.
WHERE IS MY GOD?
is he in the covers of the newly raped girl’s bed?
purity lost, stolen,
ripped out of her by hate and black.
or the fingertips of the murderer?
soul screaming for help,
lost in the canyon of why,
lost to the confusion of his mind
then I see the father
of the daughter whose soul was burned
he walks into that jail cell,
takes this man’s face in his hands,
holds him close and cries.
is this God?
I can hear him in my little sister’s voice when she whispers,
“I forgave him.”
“I forgave him a long, long time ago.”
the inflections in her voice make my heart
the earth stop moving on its
and forget hatred and abuse.
blood and gore.
there’s a song that lifts. a life that gives. a peace that knows.
he’s the singer,
the poet. the giver. of love.
and I know you’re saying, don’t get all sappy on me now. and i won’t. only tell truth of WHO MY GOD IS.
he’s the breather, the restorer.
he moves, and dances and sways.
in the refugee camps and
prison walls. the murderer’s heart
and the father’s arms.
and I can hear him humming
through the laughter of the rapist.
see his breath in
the chest of
he’s the lover.
that word so abused and lost, forgotten, misused
I’m not talking about the
love that makes you want to
kiss that boy so hard he forgets his
or the kind that makes you wanna
sing a song by the fire,
take a walk in the meadow.
It’s his love.
the one and only true,
only holy, righteous,
The love that redeems, restores, and is.
it’s his signature, his watermark, his solo.
God is here.
In breath and life.
In darkness and pain.
In the church and the rain.
you just have to stop trying to
or smell him.