A Home Where God Roams

By Rashad Booker

They tell you… they tell you it’s out there.

Up there. Beyond the clouds. Beyond the veil.

Some golden city, streets of pearl, a celestial quiet.

They tell you god… is on a throne.

Distant. Judging. Watching all this mess. This beautiful,

 brutal, broken mess.

And the world? Man, the world is a grinder.

It grinds you down. The news feed, a constant siren.

The headlines, a scream stuck in your throat.

Kids with empty eyes. Greed like an open wound.

Politicians with plastic smiles and daggers in their words

The constant hum of fear, a baseline frequency.

It wants to drag you under. To pollute the well.

To convince you that this is all there is.

This concrete jungle, this digital noise, this endless, breathless race.

And you look around, right? You look at the jagged edged. You feel the 

sharp corners.

And you think, where’s the sanctuary?

Where’s the sacred? Where’s the light they promised? The one they said 

would cut through the dark?

I used to search. Oh, I searched.

In books. In sermons. On mountain tops and ocean

Floors. I knelt in dust. I screamed at the sky. Waiting for a sign. A 

lightning bolt. A booming voice.

Something to say, “Here! Here it is! The answer! The peace!”

But the thunder just rolled on. And the silence was… empty. Or so I 

Thought.

Until… until one day, the noise got too loud. The static in my head, the 

chaos outside it all just… collapsed. And in that strange, sudden quiet… I

 heard a whisper. Not from out there. But from in here.

A hum. A vibration.

Like a cello string, deep inside my chest.

A pulse. A steady rhythm, underneath the frantic beat 

of my anxious heart. And I leaned in. I listened.

I closed my eyes, not to shut out the world. But to tune in to what was left.

What was still whole. What was undeniable.

Beneath the anger. Beneath the sorrow.

Beneath the endless striving.

And there it was.

 Not a place. Not a destination.

But a state. A frequency.

A pocket of pure, unadulterated is-ness.

Like a deep, dark pool in the heart of a

Poisoned forest.

Untouched. Untainted. Sparkling.

Heaven.

Not some distant reward, but this very moment.

When I can feel the quiet strength of my own bones.

The intricate dance of my own cells.

The fierce, tender capacity of my own heart to still feel…. Anything.

That’s it. That’s the church. That’s the temple.

Built right here. In this flawed, glorious, temporary vessel.

And god? God isn’t some benevolent dictator in the clouds.

God is the architecture of this internal cathedral. The light that filters 

through the stained glass of my soul. The silent hum. 

The unconditional beat.

 The wild, untamed spark that refuses to be extinguished, no matter 

how much the outside world tries to drown it in shadow. God is knowing. 

The loving. The simply being.

The part of me that sees the brokenness and still believes in wholeness.

The part of me that feels the pain and still reaches for compassion.

The part of me that is unbreakable. Unshakeable.

It’s not some grand revelation handed down from on high.

It’s the quiet roar of my own sacred truth.

It’s the deep, abiding peace that laughs at the chaos.

So, let the world rage. Let it claw and bite.

 Let the shadows dance their desperate ballet.

Because I’ve found my sanctuary.

I’ve built my heaven, brick by breath.

And God… God is the very air I breathe within its walls.

Within myself.

Always.

Right here.

Unfolding.

Right now.

By Rashad Booker