Skip to main content

If God Had a Face

Photo credit J.Scott Bovitz

The other night I gathered with a couple of my very good friends. They are the kind of friends that value every precious part of this journey of the heart-- finding the treasure of being simply you, being present in the moment, not missing any of what is right in front of you-- of loving far and wide, and farther still. They can spend countless hours discussing it (we have had to set a curfew!).

The best is how we allow for all the contradicting parts of us, letting us move at our own pace, and in our very individual way--lovingly challenging our stories, nudging us out of them, and cultivating an openness to hearing about ourselves, because we recognize that it is easier to see others than to see ourselves!

The most precious is how each of us, by sinking into our very unique selves brings something so different to the mix, and yet, we find through sharing our experiences, that we are looking into the mirror of our very sacred Selves.

This particular evening we were split between a sincere desire to see clearly, and an overflowing of laughter at the silliness of who we are, and what we have yet to understand. It is true that the more you know, the less you know you know, and the funnier it all becomes!

I found myself expressing a clear and deep desire at this point in my journey, to take every last one of my thoughts and turn them all to love, not letting even one escape into the cracks of my mind. Hell-bent (hmm, is this a good term? sure it is!) on using all the tools I've gathered to take my practice of loving-kindness to a new level within me.

I kept repeating that I was ready to make this a marathon. (My friend later called it a mind-athon. I like it). I'm ready to just start running with it, because the pain of standing still at this point feels so much worse than it did before. There is a true knowing of what it is to really feel aligned, and there is a self-love that no longer allows for useless suffering.

I found myself expressing fervently that being aware of each thought and action was so important, because through moments of shifting all thoughts to a loving interpretation, I had seen the face of God. There was no other way to say it--and this was so funny that I exploded in laughter!

Oh, the lovely contradiction, to have long left God dead by the roadside, all through my atheist years, and then to have brought Him back to life, as my very own Frankenstein, having fashioned all the parts of him together, to my very own liking, in a deliciously sloppy way! Now He works for me. Now I see He works for me.

And it doesn't matter that He doesn't have the makings of a mythological God, man-like and muscly in His image, terrible in His judgement and destruction. It doesn't matter that He is quiet and still, or as gentle as a simple, sweet melody. It doesn't matter that He is really more of a feeling, or that He can be simply named Unconditional Love. It doesn't matter that He is mostly You and Me, reflected in you and me. It doesn't matter at all, because I see His face everywhere.

He is release.

He is letting go.

He is opening ever further to what this journey means.

He is not letting yourself be deadened by a world that would ask that of you, keeping you paralyzed until the grave.

He is deciding that your life is precious, and that the time you have left is for discovery and exploration, and for finding just what it is that makes you tick, while learning that it is by coming out of hiding, by standing on your own two feet, by showing up with your tiny, squeaky little voice, that you have the power to change your world.

And that as you tune into your very own heart, you learn that what you've always wanted was ever so simple. To love and to be loved-- but that this world was never set up for that to be possible, so you find your own way to make that happen, and you find that it is possible.

He is possibility.

And little by little, gone are the contradictions, because they just cannot exist in your all-encompassing view of what is, what can be, and why it happens as it does. And then you read the meaning with your whole self, your whole entire body, down deep to your atoms.

It only takes two to see the divine in the other, and that can never be unseen--even if there is the illusion at times that it has been lost.

Once there is vision, there is only the return back to vision. Once you see the face of God, it can never be forgotten. (Here you would hear my friends giggling, but their hearts would know the truth of it:).


  1. So so beautiful. Thank you for bringing me back to truth, again and again and again.

    I'm so grateful to share it all with you; the sacredness, the mind craziness, the giggles--the love.

    You are precious, my friend.

  2. Hey Brooke,

    Brilliant! This blog is so poignant for me at the moment especially since I started the conscious dying experiment. Maybe, you are heaven-bent? One thing is for sure; brutal honesty is the way forward. Looks like we are both singing from the same hymn sheet.

    Love Nige

  3. Thank "God" for questioning!

    Thank "God" for insights!

    Thank "God" for humor!

    Thank "God" for oneness!

    Brilliant!!!!!! One of my favorite blogs so far.

    Thank "God" for you!!!!

  4. I love the mix of seriousness, sweetness, and silliness of this post and of your time with the friends of your heart and soul. How lucky we are to partake of it through your beautiful writing!


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…