Where Are You?

It wasn’t the garden lost that breaks my heart,

or fig leaves stitched in fear once eyes were opened apart.

It wasn’t exile, dust, or sorrow’s first breath—

it was a question asked

in the shadow of death.

Footsteps in the garden,

cool of the day,

God walking toward man

who had turned away.

Not What have you done?

Not thunder or proof—

just five quiet words

that cut straight to the root:

Where are you?

Not a question of place,

He knew every tree—

it wasn’t about distance in geography.

It was about closeness,

about something undone,

about space that appeared

where there once had been one.

Life had been spoken

into Adam’s frame,

but disobedience whispered

another name.

Death walked in—

not the grave, not the ground,

but a silence between them,

a loss that was felt, not found.

Because you can share the same air,

the same holy space,

and still turn your heart

from God’s face.

And now it gets heavy—

because the truth still rings:

many are standing in gardens,

yet hiding behind things.

Still in the church.

Still lifting hands.

Still quoting verses

we half understand.

Still saying, God knows my heart,

while drifting away—

present in routine,

but distant in stay.

Sin didn’t just birth shame or regret,

it created a gap

we don’t like to admit.

So Adam hid—

not because love withdrew,

but because shame convinces us

grace can’t be true.

And God didn’t ask to accuse or expose,

He asked because something living

had closed.

Where are you?

Not for blame or display,

but because honesty

is where healing starts its way.

God didn’t drag him

from behind the tree,

He waited—

because love doesn’t force proximity.

He invites.

He calls.

He leaves room to choose.

He restores through truth,

not coerced excuse.

And still that question

moves through time and space—

not because God can’t see you,

but because He feels the space.

Not What did you do?

But Where have you been?

Because presence matters

before pardon steps in.

And even then—

after the fall, after the shame—

God clothed them Himself,

unchanged in His name.

Covered their nakedness.

Covered their fear.

Covered the distance

with love still near.

So if you hear it today

in the hush of your soul,

it isn’t condemnation—

it’s mercy taking roll.

Not asking for perfection,

performance, or art—

just truth from the place

you’ve hidden your heart.

Step out from the trees.

Let honesty speak.

Because grace meets us strongest

when we stop being weak.

The same God who asked,

Where are you?

is still reaching out—

with covering too.

So…

Where are you?