Finding God at the Bottom of a Laundry Pile

Maybe finding god 

Is a resounding moment of peace.

Maybe lying down in bed after finally finishing the ordeal of doing your laundry and putting it away feels like that,

The peace of knowing you own nothing dirty except the very cloth on your back feels holy.

Maybe experiencing kindness in a new city feels like finding god,

The god in the girl who taught you how to do laundry in the first place, 

her kind eyes patiently teaching you why you shouldn’t use hot water on your delicates

Had glimmers of worship, the faint song and dance of devotion.

Maybe finding god isn’t a quest at all,

Maybe she will come to you as the second love of your life.

And I say second because you did have a first,

and she was holy for the longest time.

Your quiet worship of her dimples,

Your quiet faith in her actions,

Your quiet compliance of her doctrine,

Seemed to turn love liturgical.

A ritual, a rule, a cruel god.

Maybe the second time you find god

You will know not to posses her.

Maybe you will know not to desperately pursue god’s favour,

Because by now you know, he smiles upon your every step.

Maybe finding god isn’t as much about finding god,

as it is about letting yourself be found.

Because no matter how loud you cry out for peace,

Or pray for the pain to go away,

Or wish on the angels that your eyes invent,

You will not find god at the bottom of a shot glass,

Nor will you find god in the arms of the one you love,

Or the arms of those who gave you life,

In a moment when the idea of resounding peace seems unfathomable,

God will find your heart

Take it in his arms

And weigh the agony and gratitude it holds within.

He will send you more kindness than you can imagine,

and the willingness to do your laundry on the days you fear the world is going to end.