When God Doesn't Move

God is like the moment in a forest when the wind stops and no one is breathing and there are somehow no squirrels and for a moment there is absolutely nothing except the world just being.
For a moment, not even a hint of change.
Not even a hint that God breathes. Isn’t he supposed to breathe?
And I’m the one just dancing on the leaves and making some ruckus to encourage God to start talking to me in the forest, or at least laughing at my silliness, not because I’m afraid of the quiet, but because I’m concerned that God has stopped breathing.

I’m the little girl running and jumping on God’s body earth, poking him to wake, tugging at his leg, like a daughter pulling on her dad’s coat from so far below.
“Hello there God, let’s make some noise, do you like me, do you hear me, are you awake?”
I know God is I Am (is-ness) and maybe there are moments when God dances with us but I haven’t seen that side of God in a very long time.

One time I saw a dog run over in the middle of the road, and his identical dog-brother standing right over top of him, wagging his tail a little, like the run-over dog was just pretending to die.
Sometimes when I think about God as I Am, I remember that.
Sometimes I wonder if God is a thing I play with even after he died.
Are you just being very still, God?

For once I would love to see God as a father who plays with me without telling me how to play better. Maybe toys instead of sports.


It’s great that God is the ground of all being and that is comforting to me until I need God to have a body and a voice and move around and change things and play with me and tell me I’m a good creation and things here in our universe won’t be the same forever.


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