Divine Design

We move through the world like it’s ordinary, like our breath is not borrowed from stars and like our eyes are not coded to perceive miracles and call them mundane.

We say things like, “That’s just how life is,” and “I’m only human,” as if being human isn’t the most radical expression of God ever attempted. We forget that the voice we use to apologize is the same voice that can crack open souls with a song.

We forget that every time we reach for beauty, a paintbrush, a poem, or a held hand in a hospital room, we are what God looks like when she remembers herself.

And still we say, “I’m just one person” or I’m just trying to get by,” not knowing that even in our stumbling, we leave sacred footprints. Not knowing that the warmth in our voice, the rhythm in our laughter, and the longing in our questions are divine signatures. They are not accidents or background noise. They are the divine breaking through in a body that never needed to be perfect, just open.

What if we lived like we believed it? What if we held each other like we knew we were brushing up against the living field? What if we saw that every act of creation was a form of worship, and every moment of true presence was a prayer?

Would we speak more softly or would we be louder? Would we take up more space or become quieter just to listen? Would we still scroll past each other or would we stop, just for a second, to say, “My God, you’re here too.”

We have no idea how divine we are, but I think we’re starting to remember. And maybe the point is not to know, but to notice and to be surprised again and again by the miracle of being made of stardust and still choosing to love and paint the human condition in colors and textures that are unique to our own divine design.