Part VI · Settled
God, Undressed
I used to dress Him in robes,
in rules,
in the tired cadence of sermons
spoken louder than they were lived.
I thought the pulpit was proximity.
That faith came with fluorescent lighting
and laminated bulletins,
and only counted
if someone else could see it.
But somewhere along the unraveling,
when my hands were shaking too hard to fold
and the pews felt more like prisons,
I stopped looking for Him
where they told me He'd be.
And found Him
somewhere simpler.
Not in a building,
but in breath.
Not in doctrine,
but in the weight of my son’s head
against my chest
at 3:17 a.m.,
when I whispered I would never leave.
I do not kneel these days.
I don’t memorize verses.
But I feel God
when I make eggs for three small mouths,
when I laugh without guilt,
when I sleep without fear.
It was never Him
who shamed me.
Never Him
who stayed silent when I cried.
It was people,
draped in borrowed authority,
too afraid to admit
they were guessing like the rest of us.
I don’t trust churches anymore.
But I’m learning to trust stillness.
To trust the voice that says,
You made it.
You are not ruined.
You were never too far gone.
Faith looks different now.
Less performance.
More presence.
Less sacrifice.
More staying.
I don’t know all the right names to call Him.
But He answers
just the same.