Lindy Thompson

Tell me something good about God.
God does not seem to be a part of my current experience.
The me who knew, the me with hands full of answers –
I can see her in my rear view mirror
but she is barely recognizable to me
and getting smaller all the time.

My arms are tired, won’t lift.
Whatever you tell me has to be small enough to fit in my chest
and true enough to stay.

Tell me about the vastness of the earth —
about places far, far away from here,
where whales rise to breathe,
their little ones close by their sides.
Tell me about the unimaginable imagination of God
that made those gorgeous, huge, singing creatures.

Tell me about snow-capped mountains,
rose-colored sunsets,
soft breezes, salt spray,
the unceasing thrum of waves washing up on shores,
all the time,
all over the world.

Tell me about the baby who just took her first breath —
her second,
her third –
the baby who just opened his eyes for the very first time –
the little being, around the corner and far across the earth,
newly born, newly here.

Tell me about the love –
the irrational, irrepressible love —
that compelled a grown man to kneel on the floor,
take dust-encrusted feet into his hands,
and gently make them clean again.

Tell me that I don’t have to feel God
for God to be real.
That there are no magic words,
no list of rules to memorize,
nowhere to sign.
That there is only
God,
everywhere.
That there is no place
where God is not.

Tell me God is with me.
Tell me God is in me.
Tell me that, were there not God,
there would be no me.

But I am,
and God is.

The whales,
the babies
and I
will breathe in God,
breathe out God,
remember God,
and remain safe in God
every way,
everywhere,
all the time,
amen.