I wonder if this is how God sees me.
My neighbour struggling with bags.
I wonder if this is how God sees me.
Feeding the birds.
The runner who just took their first steps
and tripped on the curb.

I wonder if this is how God sees me.
On a Sunday, with drawn curtains.
A world at rest —
and I dearly hope they’re getting it.

The radically mundane.
The small, honest acts of humanity
witnessed behind my bedroom window.

My heart wells to the brink —
a cup crested in cosmic compassion.
And I want to say a toast
to their delicate humanness.

The eucharist.

How easy people are to love
when they’re not performing.
How easy people are to see
when they don’t believe they’re being watched.

And I take the bread:
All that is, is all there is.
And if all there is, is this —
then God must be all that is to me.

I breathe into the silence
and feel it answer back —
even the void
was beckoned into being.

I wonder if God’s in me.