When I Met God / God Is Hiding

I.

When I Met God

I didn’t meet God in the hallowed halls,

in the sacred spaces anointed by man.

I met her in my darkest moment—

when up was down,

and down was up,

and life had gone all tipsy-turvy.

I met God

on her terms—

in the fire beside the frying pan

that was my life.

She wore no crown.

She did not whisper.

She roared.

A woman of ash and ember,

bones forged from collapsed stars,

lips stained with the ink of forgotten prayers.

She cracked the floor

beneath my performance.

Pulled me through

the hole I tried to hide.

God said:

“Let the temple fall.

Let the offering be you.”

She turned every shattered mirror

into a map.

Marked each wound

as a holy place.

Told me:

“No altar is needed.

Just breath.

Just truth.

Just the courage

to burn and rise again.”

II. God Is Hiding

God is hiding in plain sight—

in the flicker of recognition

that dances just to the left

of where you’re looking.

In the feather-touch

of a lover’s hand,

the soft hush between

what is said

and what is meant.

She lives in the shimmer—

those orbs of light

that hover in air

when no one else sees.

She is ensconced

in the branches

of the gnarled old oak

guarding the gate

of a cemetery

no longer on the map.

She is curled

in the bellies of fairies,

who braid the wind

with wildflowers

at the base of snow-laced mountains.

You will not find her

in thunder

or commandments.

She prefers moss

to marble,

and mystery

to monument.

She is the breath

before your child wakes.

The pause

before the hawk dives.

The stillness

after your last scream.

God is hiding—

not because she is afraid,

but because

she wants to be found

by those who have forgotten

where to look

somewhere between here and there.