I didn’t find him where they said he’d be.
I didn’t find him in church, though I caught glimpses. I didn’t find her in the bible, though sometimes I could almost hear a gentle whisper in the soft crinkling and turning of those aged pages.
I didn’t find that which we have come to call God with a capital G in works or faith or missions or devotionals or prayer or worship, even though God with a capital G was the reason I was doing them.
I found him in the silence.
I found him where others warned me I wouldn’t: in the doubt that leads to questions that leads to wonder upon wonder and the ever expanding of the universe. From the spinning solar system to pinwheel galaxies and gyroscopes in the sky. I found him in the unexpected places, in the backwaters and the alleyways and the boondocks, crouched down and writing in the dirt. Not always clean, not always palatable, not always agreeable. I found him in the voices and hands and faces of ordinary people. I found him in the way that everyone is an image.
I found him on the slippery slope, the place I was told was dangerous.
I found her in the supposed sacrilege of a shifted pronoun, she was there too. Though not many were looking. I found her in birth, in blood, in the softness and fragility of my babies.
I found her.