I Wanted a God Moment, I Got Granola

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“Everything in here is for you.”

She gestured to the large wooden crate resting on the rustic island. My eyes widened as I peeked inside.

Wrapped in brown paper was a freshly baked loaf of bread. Nestled beside it, a large glass jar of homemade coconut granola, a bar of dark chocolate and the most darling wire basket shaped like a hen, cradling eggs her chickens had laid that morning—light tan, pale blue, and celadon-coloured.

“Oh, and there’s yogurt and orange juice for you in the fridge. I hope you have a lovely stay!”

My host grinned as she exited the small cottage I had rented for the next two nights. It was as charming as the pictures suggested, but I had not been expecting such a welcome. Everything in the crate had been thoughtfully selected to communicate as much love and warmth as possible. I placed a pot on the stove to heat my soup and cut a generous slice of bread, slathering it with butter. Sitting at the wood table with a bowl of curried chicken soup, bread, and Wild in the Hollow, I couldn’t have been more content.

The next morning, I reluctantly shrugged off the coziness, determined to get down to business. Time on my own is scarce, and I didn’t want to waste it all on books and the most swoon-worthy granola I had ever tasted. I was alone for the first time in years. It was obvious I needed to carve out space for a God moment. I needed to allow God ample time to speak and give me direction; time to download the sparkling life plan I was sure was stored up in the heavens, just waiting for me to be open and still enough to receive it.

I drove the short distance to the ocean, preparing myself for the inevitable spiritual lightning bolt. The sky was bright and clear, the wind bracing. I zipped my yellow windbreaker up to my chin, and soldiered over the rocks to sit on one of the hundreds of logs littering the beach.

Digging my old runners into the sand, I started to pray. Then I stopped in case I was missing The Voice because my voice was in the way. I drew swirls in the sand with a stick as I watched the white caps dance in the sunlight. I listened for holy whispers. I prayed again, in case my earlier prayers weren’t enough. I asked for purpose and vision and calling. I asked for a thought, or maybe an idea. I asked for a measly word.

Nothing.

The spiritual sojourner vibe I was attempting to maintain gave way to decidedly unspiritual frustration, which snowballed into anger as time dragged on. I mean, I was here. I was ready. Wasn’t this what God wanted? God was giving me nothing.

A hundred sand swirls later, I stomped my way back to the car. I couldn’t believe God hadn’t shown up.

As I turned into the narrow dirt driveway, I saw that the white lights strung around the tree had been switched on, as if in anticipation of my arrival. Looking at the ethereal globes floating in the branches softened me a bit. The chickens squawked happily at me as I walked by. When I stepped into the house, I saw the loaf on the counter, still airy and soft. It sat next to a glorious bunch of dahlias—fuchsia and sunshine yellow and soft pink—carefully arranged in an old jam jar.

I took in the beauty and life around me, completely overwhelmed. The warmth I felt when I first arrived washed over me once more. I exhaled, long and slow, and padded to the kitchen to fill the kettle. And in that ridiculously ordinary moment, I heard this:

Sometimes it isn’t about a lightning bolt or a grand plan or a perfectly orchestrated spiritual epiphany. Sometimes it’s about thick slices of bread and bouquets of flowers and yogurt in the fridge. Because this specific kind of beauty is what connects you to me, and creates a thin place between us. I have been all around you this whole time. I am in the eggs and the twinkle lights and the cheerful owner. I am in the lilting whistle of the kettle. I am in the wild wind and the restless ocean and the crisp sheets. This is how I communicate with you.

Because I know you.
Settle in with me. Rest.

So I carved another too-big slice. Lit a candle. Curled up under the covers with a book, pausing every so often to delight at the lights outside my window. I stopped telling God to show up the way I thought he was supposed to. I stopped anxiously waiting for my download of The Master Plan. I let God show up the way he wanted to. In dahlias and abandoned beaches and granola.

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Megan Gahan
After over a decade in the fitness industry, Megan now spends her days chasing two pint-sized tornadoes disguised as little boys. By night, she is a writer and editor for SheLoves. A proper Canadian, Megan can often be found in the woods or at Tim Hortons. She writes at megangahan.com.
Megan Gahan
Megan Gahan

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