By Sarah D. Park

I grew up going to church retreats as a kid. I don’t know if this is a Korean church phenomenon, but it was normal to go up into the mountains to spend time with God once a year.

And the night before we had to go home, well, that was a special night. No cup ramen. No card games on the floor. The main sanctuary lights would be turned down low and the worship band would spontaneously begin to play moody background music. The youth pastor takes the stage, mic in hand and intensity in his gaze, calling out prepubescents to repent and cry out to their savior. Kids start falling to their knees, ugly crying into the carpet, scattered rows of small hunched over children shuddering into their tears.

As for me? I was the one sitting in the back, in the front, it didn’t matter. My tears would not come. I’d whisper, “God, where are you? I’m here” and blink my dry eyes open when the lights turned back on. When I’d leave the sanctuary to walk back to my cabin, at least the stars were some comfort, my eyes widening to take in their number and I feeling small and seen underneath their presence.

I imagine it’s difficult to explain to a child how to interact with a real God you cannot see or touch. Feelings were the next closest thing to an encounter, albeit ushered in by minor chords.

I then evolved into thinking that God liked to interact with me best through community — that knowing me, God knew to counter my fierce independence by forcing me to rely on others to access God. God may not speak to me, but I could at least see God speak through me to others, and vice versa.

But it’s been 7 months of shelter-in-place. I haven’t been around any kind of physical community in a long time. I miss the hands that reach out and touch my shoulder in togetherness. I miss sensing that someone is behind me and upon hearing them pray, feeling loved by knowing who is petitioning God on my behalf. I find myself hungry for an encounter with God, something that I thought I had grown out of, something that I thought a mature faith would not need.

Because of the west coast fires smudging our skies, there are nights when I cannot see even a single star. Just a seeming emptiness so engulfing, my eyes have trouble focusing.

I am realizing that having faith is not about holding onto an unchanging faith, but perhaps allowing faith to grow and evolve while facing an expansive and mysterious God. I can only hope that there are as many ways to encounter and name my God, as there are as many stars that I cannot see. God, where are you? I’m here.

How have I encountered God recently? In the sweetness of my husband’s touch. In the butterscotch smell of the Jeffery pine that interrupts my driveway. In a patch of blue sky after weeks of ashy horizons. God, where are you? I’m here.

Sarah D. Park is a freelance writer whose work focuses on the cultivation of cross-racial dialogue with a Christian faith orientation. She is also a story producer for Inheritance Magazine and manages communications for several organizations. She currently calls the Bay Area her home but is an Angeleno through and through.