Dear God who walks in light and shade, Who made both sun and stars that fade, I lay me down with heart so still, To learn Thy love in death and will.
You made the breath that fills my chest, And made the sleep that feels like rest. You made the laugh, the sigh, the tear, And whisper, “Child, I’m always near.”
The day is bright, the night is deep, But both are hands that cradle sleep. And whether now or someday far, I’ll walk with You where wonders are.
For life and death are just a door—One step, then I’m not less, but more. No need to fear the silent part, You hold it gently in Your heart.
So let me rise or let me fall, You catch and carry through it all. For in Your arms both dark and light Are just the same, and both are right.
Not the booming command from the clouds. Not the doctrine or dogma recited in dusty chapels. But something wilder. Stranger. Truer.
You’re walking alone, and a bird lands in front of you. Not meaningful, not symbolic—just there. Random. But it hits you. It feels like something. That flicker in your chest? That’s Him. That’s Her. That’s whatever God is when it isn’t wearing a name.
People say God is order. Symmetry. A plan. But if you’ve really lived—if you’ve really been gutted by life, if you’ve watched everything burn and had to laugh in the smoke—you know better. You know that the most divine things are never planned. The moments that change your life? They crash in sideways. No invitation. No logic. Just raw, unpredictable impact.
That time you turned left instead of right and met the one person who understood you. That offhand comment that rewired your brain. That storm that canceled your plans and saved your soul. You call it coincidence. You call it chance.
I call it God cracking His knuckles.
Randomness isn’t chaos. It’s freedom. It’s the one language big enough to hold mystery without crushing it. Because a truly random moment isn’t random at all—it’s a rupture in the simulation. A glitch in the grid. A whisper from the Infinite saying, I’m here, and I am not tame.
We’re told to listen for God in stillness. But sometimes God screams in randomness.
He’s in the flick of a coin.
In the missed train.
In the wrong number that changed your life.
In the mess.
Because randomness isn’t meaningless. It’s pre-meaning. It’s the raw clay of the cosmos before you’ve shaped it into a story. And in that space—unformed, unscripted—is the purest, fiercest kind of divinity.
So pay attention when it doesn’t make sense. That’s where the fire lives. That’s where God leans in close.
