Seeing God

Psalm 16:11 “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

            When I think of God, it is often as a father—a deeply-loving, ever-caring, continually-giving, yet all-the-while-firm father.  One just like my own earthly father.  Our relationship was a special one, and because of him, I have a clearer picture of my Heavenly Father.  My dad loved me so much, and knew me so well, he only had to hear my voice over the phone to know if I was hurting.  And he only had to say "I love you, Rondi," for me to feel him put his arms around me once again as he used to do when I was a little girl at home.  I think God is like my dad—knowing me, loving me, encouraging me, strengthening me, guiding me.

            But I think God is also like my mother.  Now, she is one of my very best friends, but when I was growing up, she was feeding me, clothing me, teaching me, playing with me, and—all too often it seemed then—disciplining me.  I remember her saying every time she spanked me, (which wasn't often, of course) "this hurts Mommy more than it does you."  And in truth, it probably did, for I did not meekly yield myself to the paddle.  By the time she was finished, we would both be crying.  "Rondi, I'm doing this because I love you," she'd say.  Then she would hold me on her lap and cry with me.  I couldn't quite understand that kind of love when I was little.  I couldn't see why, if she loved me so much, she had to make rules that didn't make sense, and then punish me for breaking them.  As I look back on it now, it all makes sense.  And I know God is a lot like my mother—so patient, so gentle, so tender.  I know, too, that God was there for her then, doing what she was—and still is—doing for me:  showing me a clearer vision and understanding of true love, a love that keeps on loving under every circumstance.

            But God is more to me than a parent—loving and disciplining, caring and providing.  He's a creator, an artist, a musician.  He's serious about what He does, but He enjoys it and wants others to enjoy it, too.  I can imagine Him in the early springtime, hiding behind a newly budding tree, grinning with excitement as someone delightedly discovers the first cactus bloom or a delicate golden daffodil braving the still-cool March winds.  I can imagine Him in the summer, basking in the sun at the beach, His eyelids drooping lazily, a smile playing at the corners of His mouth as He hears the shrieks of laughter from children jumping the waves.  I see Him scuffling His feet through the leaves in autumn and drinking deeply of the crisp, clear fall night, gazing at the myriad of stars overhead.  I see Him in winter, delighting in each perfect, tiny snowflake—perhaps even pausing to throw a few snowballs.  I see Him marveling at the skill and agility of the skier flying down the slope; hear Him sighing with satisfaction at a winter sunset.  And I see Him looking around and smiling upon discovering that He's not alone in admiring the beauty—His beauty.

            I see Him in the orchestra pit, waving His arms enthusiastically alongside the conductor.  I see Him in the horn section, playing for all He's worth.  I hear Him in the choir, His mellow baritone blending and soaring with the rest of the voices.  I see Him in the audience, standing, with tears in His eyes too, listening to the triumph of the Hallelujah Chorus.

            I see Him on the ball field, running hard and fast into the end-zone, or making a flying leap to catch a would-be home run.  I see Him on the basketball court making a three-point jump-shot from the outside corner.  And I see Him in the crowd—watching from the edge of His seat, and cheering.

            I see Him in the work place, standing beside each one and encouraging them to give their best to their task.  I see Him taking His place behind the desk, taking care with every detail.

            I see Him in the church sanctuary, perhaps sitting beside a discourage worshipper, or thinking about those in and out of the church.  I see tears come into His eyes as He feels and understands the hurt in the hearts of so many.  But I also see through those tears a love that does not quit, a love that only gives more because it receives less.

            I see Him at every corner, watching, waiting, reaching out to those going by.  I see the longing in His eyes to take your hand and mine and hold on—through the good times and the bad.  I see Him.  I feel Him nearby.  Do you?