existence of God faith

Does God Exist? (from a 94-year-old Guest Blogger)

3:34 PMHeather

"Oh, you know, I'm getting a bit antique-y," says my 94-year-old grandmother. She lives alone, still drives, and had me delay a visit from April to June because she was busy until then.

 I wanna be like her when I grow up. She has a special way of making anyone in her presence feel adored and absolutely delighted in, and this has been her gift to me since I was a little girl. 

 She's endured far more than one person should in a lifetime. My daughter wants me to recount her unbelievable stories in a book someday, and I just might. Because it seems like fiction with all the plot twists and turns.

 And due to those heart breaks and disappointments, she says she's not always sure she's on speaking terms with God. I love her honesty and always try to cheer her on to just keep wrestling that through. While I was there this last weekend, she shared a poem that she wrote years back, about whether God exists.

 It's too good not to share. 

 From my "guest blogger" -- my Grandmother

Photo by Jeremy Lwanga on Unsplash

The Poet Asks "Does God Exist?"


The poet thinks on this:
What source the source of all?
Physics you say. Or biological fate.
Or cataclysmic chance. Still, would you know
The source beyond the source?

Then, learned, consider this --
Our orb revolves,
It's ordered path assuring days and nights
And endless contained seasons.

How that we stand
And not spin off
Into some black abyss?
What moves the winds?

How changes the sea to rain?
Who makes the thousand-flowered dance of spring
Builds nectar comb by honey bees
And coaxes cocooned chrysalis to butterfly?

Whose magic alchemy creates of seed a tree
Who makes of yolk a hummingbird
Or molds of spermed egg a babe
Or melds of disparate notes a melody?

By whom or what is artist wrought?
Who might the author be
Of beauty, truth and good?
What moves the heart to love?

No happenstance Polaris' steady light
Or flower petals perfect symmetry
Not by chance the snow goose yearly flight
Across vast plains, no compass to point the way.

So lastly, poet, ponder this: If God is dead
Or never was or is, who sends the inspired muse
Which spins into spoken words within your head
And weaves those words into a song called poem.

                                                       --Althea Murray
                                                          written in 2004, at age 79
                                                

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