I want God. 

Those words feel like a prayer. It is a prayer.

I don’t want to talk about guns. Or politics. Or who is right or who is wrong. I don’t want to call names. I don’t  want to see my fellow humans, brown, black, white, immigrant, refugee, as anything but made in the image of God. I don’t want to hear dissenting views on theology, or whether a woman has the right to preach, teach, or if she should submit or what that even looks like.


I just want God.

These words feel like a prayer. They are a prayer.

I want to be able to feel the presence of God. I long to sit with a friend whose faith feels tangled, and both of us experience the simplicity of his love. I want to say the words, “I’m a Christian,” without the person on the other side building a wall, because they think I’m going to judge them. I long to dance before my Savior, remembering all the times he has shown up in my life.

I want you, God. 

These words feel like a prayer. They are becoming my prayer.

My life is filled with good things. Family. Deep friendships. Community. Connection. Purpose. Sitting outside with my elderly dad as we both remember my brother, who I miss more than I can say. Laughing with my “littles” who aren’t so little anymore, but who still love to sit close and tell me stories that make me laugh until I cry. Playing ping pong with my son, who says, “Mom, you aren’t so bad,” and knowing I’m salty when it comes to the game. Concocting new recipes. Walking miles every morning. Hugs from a friend that feels like a warm blanket. All good things, and I’m grateful, but the whole of who I am is your daughter.

I won’t go another step without you, God. 

These words feel like a prayer. They are my prayer.

I know you haven’t gone anywhere God. I know you haven’t changed. I understand you aren’t reflected in memes or debates, for those things can’t possibly capture the magnitude of who you are. How high. How vast. How long, how wide, how deep is your love.

Isn’t it crazy how we try to box you in? How small we try to make you? How we try to fit you in our ideology, our culture, our view of faith — when the truth is you love the whole world. You are “big picture,” but a God who knows the number of hairs on our head. A God who cries out in the garden, “Where are you?” not because you didn’t know where Adam was, but because he had lost his way. I feel you calling out the same to me. “Where are you, Suzie?” And I answer, “I got distracted. I allowed the noise of humans to overshadow the still, small whisper of you.” And you meet me in the cool of the morning, reminding me of where I should be, where I can be, where I long to be, where you long to meet me and revive my soul.

I want God too, Suzie. 

Those words feel like a prayer. They are a prayer. Talk to him about that now.

God, revive her soul. Revive our soul. We just want you.

Suzie Signature