Where Are You, God?

Where are You, God?

Not in the sermons
that dissolve with the morning,
not in the verses
I can recite by memory,
but here—
where silence presses
its full weight against my chest.

Where are You?

I need You physically.
I need a hand that does not disappear
when I reach for it.
I need a voice
that breaks through the static
inside my mind.
I need something to touch,
something that says,
"You are not alone."

Because tonight,
my heart is a room
with every window open,
and still
there is no wind.

I feel so very sad.
The kind of sadness
that teaches clocks
to move more slowly.
The kind that turns
ordinary breaths
into mountains.

I feel so very down.
Like a bird
that remembers the sky
but has forgotten
how to trust its wings.

I feel so very lost.
Not because I chose
the wrong road,
but because every road
looks the same
in the dark.

If You are here,
do not hide
behind mysteries.
Do not answer
only with echoes.
Come as warmth.
Come as light.
Come as a hand
strong enough
to hold my breaking.

If faith
is only believing
without seeing,
then forgive me—
tonight,
I ache
for seeing.

I ache
for touch.
For presence.
For certainty.

And if You cannot
stand before me
as flesh and bone,

then let Your love
become so undeniable
that it feels
like someone
has finally found me
in the wilderness
and whispered,

"You don't have to walk
the rest of the way

alone."