I Have Searched for God in Millions of People

I have searched for God in millions of people.

In the hands that held me and the hands that hurt me. In preachers who spoke His name with conviction and in lovers who whispered His name between gasps. I have looked for Him in late-night conversations that made me feel seen, in soft touches that made me believe in something greater than myself. I have begged to find Him in fleeting moments of joy, in the rush of new beginnings, in the warmth of bodies that never stayed.

I have searched for God in voices louder than my own. In pastors who spoke in tongues, in hymns that made my heart ache, in gospel songs that sent chills down my spine. I thought if I listened hard enough, if I followed the sound, I would find Him there. But all I found were echoes. Beautiful, empty echoes.

I searched for Him in people I thought carried divinity in their bones. In mentors who promised wisdom, in elders who promised faith, in hands that traced crosses on my forehead and swore I was blessed. I searched for Him in the eyes of my mother, in the strength of my father, in the kindness of strangers who felt like home. But even the holiest of hands can let you go. Even the gentlest of souls can walk away.

And when they did, I was left wondering—had God walked away too?

So I searched for Him in the pain.

In heartbreak that left me breathless. In grief that made me hollow. In the nights I clutched my own chest, feeling it cave in from the weight of all I had lost. I thought maybe He was in the suffering, in the breaking, in the unbearable longing for something more.

I looked for Him in distractions.

In the chase of success, in the thrill of being wanted, in the validation of people who never truly saw me. I drowned myself in work, in accomplishments, in things that made me feel like I was worth something. Like I was good enough.

I searched for Him in sin.

In moments that left me guilty. In indulgences that left me empty. In love I called salvation, in people I called home.

I searched for Him on my hospital bed. In the haze of nights I barely remember, in the sting of needles. I searched for Him in things that made me forget myself because I thought maybe, just maybe, if I lost myself completely, I would find Him in what was left.

But God was never in those things.

He was never in the people I lost.

He was never in the moments that destroyed me.

He was never in the noise I filled my life with.

He was in the silence.

In the spaces I was too afraid to sit in. In the moments I was too busy running from. In the still, quiet voice I had spent my whole life drowning out.

And when I finally stopped searching—when I was too exhausted to keep looking, too broken to keep chasing, too empty to keep filling myself with things that never lasted—I heard Him.

Not in a loud voice.

Not in a dramatic revelation.

Not in a miracle that turned my life upside down.

But in a whisper.

In a breath.

In the simple, quiet knowing that He had never left.

That I had never been alone.

That He was never outside of me, never waiting for me to earn Him, never hiding in things that could be lost.

He was always here.

In my breath.

In my survival.

In my ability to love, even after heartbreak.

In my ability to hope, even after disappointment.

In the way I rise, even when I swear I have nothing left.

God was not missing.

I was just looking in the wrong places.

And now?

I don’t search anymore.

I don’t chase.

I don’t beg.

I listen.

I sit in the quiet.

I let Him find me, over and over again, in the spaces I once feared.

Because God was never in the millions of people I searched for Him in.

He was in me all along.

Love,
Neta.