I'm alone but not really. It's a crowded sort of solitude. There's a blue bird in the yard and a cactus on the patio. A live oak knocks on our door because it's too big for our little patch of concrete. These things don't actually bring me company but they prove to me there's someone who does. Someone bigger and stronger.
Back home there's a frog who camps out by the garage door. When I drive back on holidays he's the first thing I see. We've adopted him and honestly he tells me about God.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not sitting in our garden chatting with amphibians. I hear the little guy croak and I remember there's Someone who cares about him enough to reserve room on this grassy ball of earth for his mucus toes.
My friend told me she doesn't believe God really hangs around anymore but I'm not convinced. I've watched people heal on the spot. I've watched suicidal minds filled with joy.
I'm excited to see more. God is pressing in. That stuff is way more than just skin and bones and neuroscience and endorphins.
This is my narrative. The one where the skin cells die off and new ones come to life. The one where there's goose bumps and kisses. Divine breath sinks into my lungs and it gives me laughter, a midnight talk, a long-distance call. I'm stitched together one limb at a time to house a brain and a soul. To imitate the Lover of grey matter and babies that cry at 2am and college students wasted on a beach and artists painting nudes. We are catalogues of love and blood. A natural history of the God who assigns us a bed, a family, a sandwich. He gives us two legs and two arms. Each of us a beloved living breathing documentary of the "let there be light" and the "let there be darkness".
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