I've Never Seen You, God: A Plea
I’ve never seen you, God,
at least not in the way I long to,
that is, up-close and face-to-face.
Neither here nor there have I seen you
but oh, how incredible it would be
to see you.
I’ve looked for you and caught glimpses
of you in others but never the full thing,
only in part as in a dim mirror
like the one fogged in the bathroom
after too warm of a shower,
moving and stationary objects barely visible
and faint to my sight
and dull to my senses.
Others have seen you more fully than I.
Adam and Eve as they accompanied you on
garden strolls in the cool of the day;
Enoch and Noah, who walked with you at
Godspeed, through their years.
Abraham saw you when you appeared to him.
Many, of course, saw you in your Son.
But I haven’t seen you; at least not like that.
It may well be that the closest I’ve
come to seeing you is in
the face of my wife in
a dress waiting at the altar;
the squeaky voice of my daughter
as she ran to wrap her arms around me;
the hungry orphans in Addis
who were distracted momentarily by
the hair on my arms they kept rubbing;
oh, and perhaps thousands of other instances
now that I think about it.
No, I haven’t seen you, at least not fully,
but, yeah, I’ve seen you—if only in part.
Oh, how I long to fix my eyes on you, God.
For now, I’ll look to Mr. David
who lies under the ripped blue tarp
down by the stoplight, the one
roped to a shopping cart and fence post,
who sits hungry, waiting for tacos again—
perhaps in hopes that he can share
with others and me—
who has no shoes and is in need of a shirt.
Last time I was there, even in
the uncomfortable darkness with
concerns for my safety, I think I saw you.
I’ll be back soon God in hopes of
seeing you again, even if in a glass darkly.
Will you meet me there?