Let me share an old tale,
carried on the breath of time,
whispered only among the quiet mystics
and never written down—
not because it was unimportant,
but because it was too easily misunderstood.
It is said that when God first created the world, creation happened effortlessly.
The mountains stood as if recalling their origin.
The oceans pulsed in perfect rhythm.
The stars knew exactly where to shine, without instruction or hesitation. Then came the minerals—
patient, uncomplaining, content to be stone.
Then the plants—stretching toward the sun without question, rooted, yet free.
Then the animals—
moving by instinct,
never doubting the path beneath their feet,
never asking if they were enough.
Finally, God created humans.
Almost immediately, problems started.
They asked. They begged.
They bargained.
They pleaded for favors, signs, guarantees, and exceptions.
They prayed loudly—and seldom listened.
God, it is said, sighed.
“If I remain visible,” God thought, “I will never find rest.”
They will knock at every minute of the hour, demanding answers they are not ready to hear."
So God gathered the angels and posed a question:
“Where should I hide so humans will be least likely to find me?”
One angel asked, suggesting the highest mountain. God smiled.
They will climb it.
Another suggested exploring the depths of the ocean. God shook his head. “They will dive.”
Another said, “Hide in the farthest star.” God laughed softly.
“They will build rockets and reach it.”
Then a soft voice spoke —
one that had not learned to interrupt.
“Hide inside them, it said.” The last place they will ever look.
And God understood this was wisdom.
So He chose to play a clever trick and placed Himself not in the heavens above,
but in the silence beneath thought.
Not in temples of stone,
but in the living sanctuary of the human heart.
And from that moment forward, humans searched everywhere—
in books and beliefs,
in rituals and mountain retreats,
in wars, in wealth, in distant skies—
Everywhere
except the one place where God chose to dwell.
This is why the great ones later whispered, not as a commandment but as a reminder:
“The kingdom of God is within.”
“Be still and know I AM.”
For the same inner intelligence
that breathes you when you forget to breathe,
that digests your food without instruction,
that knits your wounds in sleep,
and guides your steps when the mind becomes quiet—
That is where God has been hiding all along.
Not lost.
Not absent.
Waiting.
Not in the heavens above,
nor in distant stars or sacred stones,
but in the silence that breathes
between your thoughts.
To be noticed.
Maybe he's been softly knocking on your door.
All this time—
not with thunder,
but with a pause.
Not with demands,
but with stillness.
And perhaps the door never opened because the search was always directed outward—
toward more knowledge,
more certainty,
more proof—
while the one knocking waited
in the one place no one expected to check.
The sages smile at this because they understand the punchline of the universe.
God was never hidden from humanity; it was humanity that hid from itself.
And when that hiding finally ends—
when the searching grows weary,
when the noise grows thin,
when attention turns home—
There is no reunion.
Only recognition.
The fire dies out. The night remains.
And something within you,
having never left, finally remembers and rests at last.
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