In a forum of ministers that I’m blessed to be a part of, someone recently posed the question, “Where do you see God?" I was sitting in my cubicle at work on a Monday night when I read his question, and began to type my response. I confess that I had to stop a couple of times and try to brush tears from my eyes as inconspicuously as I possibly could. Someone later read my response and told me I should “put it into song form”, and, while I was flattered, I know that no song I write would ever come out exactly like I want it to. The restrictions of time, tempo, stanza and rhyming seems to bottle up what I really want to express.
So you’ll probably never hear (or read) it in song form, but here is my response. It flowed from my heart…
Where Do You See God?
Interesting question, and one that I have pondered in my own mind here of late...
I have been nearsighted all my life; wore glasses that looked like Coke bottles since first grade. My vision is very poor, and I suspect the diabetes is making it worse. Because of a firing range incident while in the Army, along with various industrial jobs that involved excessively loud noise, my hearing is permanently damaged. I have tinnitus—that damage to the nerves in the ear canal that causes one to constantly hear "crickets" or bells, whistles, high-frequency whines, etc, non-stop. There is no cure for it.
Because of these two things, I seem to have noticed an increase in my sense of smell. (Granted, it could be my imagination, but it certainly seems real!) I'm not blind (my vision is corrected), nor am I deaf (I can hear; I just can't discern voices or distinguish particular sounds, especially in a crowd, unless they're loud, or directly at me). However, I have noticed in the past few months that, when I'm outdoors, the fragrance of nature (something that I've always loved) has become more vibrant, more telling, more noticeable.
Yet, in spite of diminishing sight, I see God in the diamonds that are outlined against the blackness of a velvet night; I've seen Him in a golden eagle silhouetted against the backdrop of the Colorado National Monument; I see God in the majesty of the Tetons mountains, that mysterious range in Wyoming that seems to suddenly burst out of the ground from nowhere, and disappear just as quickly on the opposite end. I see God in the shade of a huge tree on the banks of a still pond; I see Him in the artistic palette of a sunrise or sunset. I see Him in the lightning that creases the sky, and rather than being fearful, I'm reminded of how quickly He will come for me. I've laid under the stars in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, and seen His glory displayed in a million lights thrown across a boundless desert sky, an ebony canvas that makes even Montana's sky look tiny. I see God in the thundering rapids of a canyon river, and when I look at the Grand Canyon, I picture God "doodling" in the sand as He created the world. I see His handiwork displayed—almost with a grin—as He created that strange, fantastical place known as Horseshoe Bend. I see His strength and majesty in the towering sequoias of northern California, and I see His delicate touch unfolding the petals of a rose.
In spite of the incessant buzz that is constantly in my ears, I hear God in an afternoon rain; I hear Him in the breeze that caresses the tops of the pines, or soughs through the quaking aspens; I hear Him in the babble of a mountain stream, or the lapping of waves on a sandy beach; I hear Him in the singing of the birds on my evening walks, and—as annoying as it might be to some—I've heard His music in the buzz of cicadas, and the chirp of crickets in the late afternoon as the sun ceased to warm the ground. I hear Him in every note that I touch on a piano. I’ve heard His voice thundering through canyon walls, yet I can hear Him whisper to me. I've heard Him speak softly to me in my secret closet, and I heard Him call my name in the middle of thousands of young people at a Senior Youth Camp way back in 1980.
I smell him in fresh-cut grass; I've smelled His fragrance in the damp dust after a rain. I smell His touch in a rose bush, and I love His fragrance that He sprinkled through a mountain forest when He created the sagebrush, the cedar, the fir, and the mountain alpine. I've smelled Him in a garden of night jasmine, and on a fence covered with honeysuckle on a warm summer evening. I've smelled His touch in a mimosa tree closing up for the evening, and I've smelled Him in the piney woods of East Texas.
I've held Him in my closet; I've held Him at the altars of a small church I was blessed to pastor. I've sat in a dark sanctuary and sipped coffee and talked with Him. I've stood in the darkness of pre-dawn and talked with Him on my driveway, and I've sat in the darkness of the night at the end of a long shift, and I've felt His hand caress my brow with a breeze. I've seen Him, felt Him, touched Him, heard Him, every time I touch my children, each time I look at my wife; every time I hold them close to me, I am reminded of how close He is to me.
I've seen Him on Calvary's cross, and because of that, I now can see Him anywhere.
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