Messy, Sacred Life

Perhaps a million times, I’ve stared at blank pages, the black cursor blinking back at me, trying to explain what it feels like to believe in God. But the words never seem right—too small for how big the feeling is, too simple for all the doubt that comes with it. It feels like I’m trying to explain something too big to be explained.

The other day, I went to the beach with my childhood friends. The wind tangled in my hair, and I remember standing there, watching the water. For a second, it felt like I could breathe again. Like I was just supposed to be there in that moment, and that everything, in its mess, was okay. The other day, I called my brother, and we spoke for the first time in a year. The conversation was awkward at first, like two people trying to figure out who they used to be together. But then we started talking, and it felt like we might actually be able to pick up where we left off. Maybe, our love wasn’t lost just yet.

Maybe, God is in the moments you find peace. In the moments you feel hope, when you can finally see the dawn again.

The other day, I cried for a girl I didn’t know—her dad had just died. It wasn’t my grief, but somehow it felt like it was. It felt like it could be. She was only my age, and I couldn’t help but think about how fragile everything felt. I reached for my phone and texted my dad, “I love you,” just because. The other day, my best friend called, just to say she missed me. Her voice, unexpected and soft, felt like something warm on a cold day. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I heard it. I didn’t have to ask for it, but it came. And it made everything feel a little less heavy. It made me feel a little less alone.

Maybe, God is in the moments of grief.  In the moments you’re reminded of how small things hold so much weight.

The other day, my mom got sick on the bus. She tried to downplay it, but I could hear in her voice how tired she was. I panicked a little, not knowing what to do, just trying to get us home. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real. I didn’t know how we’d make it through, but somehow we did. The other day, I cried over an exam. I sat there, staring at the numbers, unable to make sense of any of it. It felt like I was trying to hold water in my hands, but it kept slipping through. I didn’t get anywhere close to the marks I wanted, and I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t just the test—it was everything else, piling up. But somehow, I got through it. Not gracefully, not perfectly—but through it.

Maybe, God is in the moments of mercy. In the moments where you get through it, even when it feels like you can’t.

The other day, I spent hours on a school trip with a girl I hadn’t spoken to in years. We sat on rides together, laughed, and talked in a way we never did before. I didn’t feel any of the hurt I had braced myself for. It wasn’t about fixing the past— it was about realizing that maybe, just maybe, we could start fresh. The other day, my father yelled at me. I was hurt, confused, tears spilling down my cheeks. I saw clarity strike him, and I let him hug me in the moments after despite it all. I understood what it felt like to be mad at the world.

Maybe, God is in the moments of unexpected grace. In the moments where you realize forgiveness isn’t that difficult after all.

The other day, I went to the grocery store, and as I walked past the shelves of overpriced basics, I felt my blood start to boil. The prices were higher than they’d been last week—again. I watched people put food back, their faces drawn tight. I saw someone pull a drink from the trash—sifting through what others had discarded, just to get by. The other day, I watched the news and felt the anger rise in me—at the things that happen in the world, the injustice, the way it all keeps going despite the pain. The news was a litany of heartbreak: homes destroyed, lives lost, and hands wrung in empty apologies. The anger felt too big for me, searing and relentless.

Maybe, God is in the moments you care. In the moments where your anger is necessary.

The other day, they called my name at the award ceremony. I stood there, frozen for a second, before I walked up to the stage, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t just about the award. It was about everything that had led to this moment, everything I had proven to myself. The other day, I stood with my friends, tears in my eyes, celebrating something we had built together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, we had dared to believe in what we could create together. I felt like maybe, just maybe, we could do something real.

Maybe, God is in the moments of knowing. In the moments you realize something greater is at work, even when we couldn’t see the whole picture.

And the other day, I realized something: God was never far away. He has always been here, sitting beside me, steady and unyielding. Comforting me when I falter. Laughing softly at my small joys. Holding space for my doubts, my anger, my grief. There is no grand revelation, no epiphany that changed it all. Just small moments—quiet ones—that say, I’m

still here. And maybe, that’s all I need to know.

I may not know God—not in the way I think I should. I don’t know what he looks like or why he cares or how his complicated system of all things in existence works. But I know He knows me. He has walked beside me to class, stayed a step ahead on dark streets, and lingered behind when I left the friends who never really cared.

Maybe, God is not in the Heavens, but here, amongst His children, where life is chaotic and messy, but oh so sacred. ~dhri