To the Doubter in Me

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Here in my tiny corner of North America, it sometimes seems as if God couldn’t possibly exist. I’d like to say I never entertain the thought of unbelief, but that would be a lie. The news brings tidings of too much anger, too many random acts of violence, from humanity and from an unforgiving natural world. Sometimes the idea of God doesn’t make any sense to a rational mind. It’s hard to refute the argument that we make him up because it makes us feel better.

And yet, as I sit in the chill quiet of a not-quite-spring day, my brain unwillingly relaxes its choke-hold on the narrowness of my own myopic perception. As the camera of my senses pulls back, slowly, my backyard expands to a city, a state, a nation, a blue ball in an endless universe.

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A universe that looks black, until I pan out far enough to trace a line from comet to red giant to nebula.

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Stars upon stars upon stars, galaxies beyond count, spectacular sights so distant that by the time they reach our eyes, they have passed into oblivion. And I realize: it can’t be accidental. Everything that is…had to have come from somewhere.

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Maybe we just can’t fathom it because we’re so small, staring at such a vast canvas.

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