God of the Small

A poem by Ryan Clark


We’re taught to see you in the spectacular, 

the miraculous healing, the majestic sunrise, 

the escalating worship chords building, building, 

voices swelling, arms lifted, air thick with Spirit, 

the God of vast grandeur, of stars and galaxies.

And this is true.

But on this morning’s drive to work through the misty dark, 

I put away my AirPods and cracked the windows, 

and along with the chilly air, in wandered 

silence, followed by boredom, followed by you.

You didn’t say much, just sat in the passenger seat 

keeping me company on my twenty minute drive. 

No convictions, no exaltations or mountaintop encounters,

just a quiet car ride through the morning fog.

As I pulled into the school parking lot, you looked at me 

and said, “you know I’m here, too, in the boredom. 

In the routine. I’ll be sitting in the back row today when

you want to say hi.” That was all.

Glancing back there now through a roomful of students,

I’m wondering how the God of the Heavens, 

of majesty and wonder, is also the God of a breath, 

of a teenager’s freckles and a morning coffee.

Teach me to see you there.

Teach me to see you in the green beans for dinner.

In the checkout lady at Kroger, 

in the kids playing soccer in the backyard. 

You are the God of the mundane, the moments of 

ordinary nothing. 

You are as minuscule as you are majestic.