Religion was created by women, not God. God can’t really have a religion, can she?
God doesn’t sit up in heaven preoccupied about how she’ll act in church on Sunday in order to best impress fellow church-goers. She doesn’t spend an hour in front of the mirror making herself look nice for the other people she’ll see at church once a week.
Instead, I imagine God to be the sort of woman who always smells nice and who always looks beautiful. She doesn’t try to look nice—she just does. She probably wears purple a lot, cause she’s royalty, and she knows it. She’s the sort of woman whose arms will embrace you tighter than anything no matter how far you went or how nasty you got coming home—the sort of woman whose house always smells like gooey brownies and warm pies because the way to someone’s heart may not always be food, but it surely can’t hurt.
She knows that it’s okay to be angry because sometimes that’s the only thing to be. She knows that it’s okay to yell because sometimes that’s the only thing to do. She can be stern if she needs to be, not because she wants to hurt you, but because she wants to help you. She loves you so much that she is willing to do whatever it takes to get you on your feet again.
She answers to many names and fills many roles, because she is abundant with joy and overflowing with grace in ways you never knew possible. Her cup runs over so that she can help to fill yours. She is every blessing in disguise and every blessing out of disguise, all at the same time. She fills the bars on Friday night in the same way she does church on Sunday morning, for why would one group of people be more deserving of her love than another group?
She probably doesn’t really care who you love, as long as you do love. She also probably doesn’t care how many tattoos or piercings you have. Maybe she has a few herself. She probably doesn’t care either what political party you belong to or if you prefer Mac or PC. Maybe she uses both.
This is because she is love. And that’s it. She is love for everyone and for everything, even if it’s boxed mac n’ cheese that’s sorta gross—even if it’s that cousin you have to see around the holidays that you don’t really like, but you have to deal with because otherwise your dessert going to be a whipping and not the sort that goes well with cream. She’s so full of love that sometimes it’s hard to see her because she’s running around being it.
Love is in a lot of things you’d never think about, like in the times where someone makes you put your seatbelt on, or in the times someone bugs you about making sure your doors are locked, or in the times when someone tells you that you’ve got something stuck in your teeth. That’s where she is. Don’t get me wrong, she’s behind the grandeur moments, too—the marriage proposals, the weddings, the new babies, and the grandchildren—but I think she’s equally as big in the small moments too, for she loves everywhere and everything at once.
