You experience God's presence the same way you fall in love.
After it his voice roars; he thunders with his majestic voice, and he does not restrain the lightnings when his voice is heard. —Job 37:4 (ESV)
Thunder booms. Sheer energy fills the air. Dark for day time, but no rain yet. Distant rumbles are punctuated with deep vibration like a drumbeat—a heartbeat, an earth-beat perhaps—and I’m struck by how amazing the world is. I think we forget its amazement sometimes, most times, watching TV or reading of the many tragedies that befall us. We forget about things like heartbeats and love, nature and all its wonders, and awe-inspiring phenomena like lightning and thunder.
The spring my sister died, a rare and endangered flower appeared out of nowhere all around the tree trunks of our yard. I researched and discovered how precious they were and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how or why they grew and thrived. The synchronicity of their appearance, timed exactly one month after my sister’s sudden death, seemed like a sign somehow, more than just a coincidence. The rain pelts the tin roof, rattling a calming hum. It grows louder and louder until it seems the whole house is an instrument of heaven’s music. The rare flowers have yet to appear again, but there are more gifts to see and hear.
In every blooming flower, every clap of thunder, every downpour, I feel God. I tell these things to my sons, who are now too old to hear it, too distracted by handheld gadgets, texts, and video games. I pray that someday they’ll discover it for themselves. I think that’s part of the magic—God’s presence can’t really be pointed out by another. It happens the way you fall in love, uniquely yours to stumble upon, to discover deep in the crevices of your heart, right where it has always been.
Heavenly Father, thank You, thank You, thank You for this beautiful and amazing life.