How I met my friend, GOD

God has always been a constant part of my life—even when I didn’t realize it was Him.

When I was a little girl, I remember feeling a strong presence around me all the time. I couldn’t describe it then, but I just knew I wasn’t alone.

When I first came back to live with my mom, I was an only child for a while. I didn’t have siblings my age to play with, so I created my own world of imaginary friends. In our upstairs bathroom, there was a stand-up shower with a glass door that had a picture of a mermaid on it. That mermaid became one of my closest “friends.”

I’d go into the bathroom, sing, and talk to my mermaid and other imagined friends. But there was also something else—this presence I couldn’t put into words. It felt like a friend too. I told it all my secrets, dreams, and wishes. I imagined us growing up together, still singing and celebrating all the wonderful things we’d do. This friend protected me, and I carried it everywhere—even to my grandmother’s house.

It was while living with my grandmother in Virginia that I learned my friend’s name. I discovered He lived in church. Church was a huge part of life there. My “Big Daddy” (what we called my grandfather) was a deacon. He’d put on his best suit and walk a mile down the road with me and my sister for Bible study, Sunday school, worship service, church picnics, and summer Bible school. If something was happening at church, we were there. Funny enough, I don’t remember Grandma ever coming with us. But when we got home, the table was laid out for us and the friends and family who had come home with us from church. The smell of fresh string beans, corn on the cob from the garden, baked and fried chicken, homemade biscuits, hot peach cobbler, and macaroni and cheese would hit your nostrils as soon as you walked in the door.

We sang all the old spirituals—How I Got Over, Oh, How I Love Jesus, Amazing Grace. Singing was my favorite part. After the songs, someone would “testify”—starting with, “Giving honor to God, pastor, deacons…”—and then share how Jesus had done something great for them. They’d talk about having breath in their body, food on the table, and the activity of their limbs. I remember thinking, Wow, my friend protects everybody. Then the pastor would preach. Fifteen minutes in, his voice would get louder and louder, ending sentences with a deep “Ha!” that fascinated me as a child.

But it was also in Grandma’s church that I first got the impression my friend only liked you if you were “good.” You had to be “without wrinkle or stain,” whatever that meant to a three-year-old. Everything else was a sin—misbehaving, not listening, saying bad words, or using the Lord’s name in vain (which I didn’t even understand yet).

I tried to figure out how to be “good enough” for my friend, but I was puzzled. I looked to the elders around me for guidance, figuring they must have the answers. They seemed to have a front-row seat to my friend every week. Yet, as we walked out of church, I’d hear some of the same people saying:

“Did you hear what so-and-so said?” “Did you see what so-and-so had on?” “I can’t believe so-and-so came up in here when you know she’s sleeping with so-and-so’s husband.”

I knew what they were talking about. Many of those churchgoers were also friends and family of Grandma’s. They would come to visit and spill all the tea about who was doing what with who. You wouldn’t believe they were the same people whooping and hollering in church about how they were blind but now they see. It seemed to me there was still a little fog in their eyes. That confused me. It made me feel conflicted. How was I going to become good enough and without wrinkle or stain following their model?

As I grew older, I went to many different churches trying to figure out the path. Some were welcoming, but in many I still saw jealousy, backbiting, and judgment. I started asking questions—because I’ve always been curious and eager to understand. But in some churches, that didn’t go over well. I was told, “Never question God.” That confused me even more, because I had always asked my friend questions—and He always found a way to answer. Sometimes through something I’d hear, sometimes through something I’d see. He understood my curious mind.

I tried to fit in. I researched different religions—Islam, Catholicism, Jehovah’s Witnesses—and explored various Christian denominations: Baptist, Pentecostal, Church of God in Christ, Protestant, Evangelical. But everywhere seemed to have prerequisites for being “good enough.” I’m not saying religion is bad. Religion has been a foundation for my life and has saved many people from the brink of death. But it has also been the reason for some of the worst things done in the name of faith.

I began to discover some truths for myself. You can practice religion. You can be a Bible scholar. You can quote scripture and preach the best sermon in the world. You can go to church, synagogue, masjid, worship Buddha, or whomever you choose. But I began to ask: What does your heart believe? How do you show love? How do you treat God’s other children?

That has become the lens I now see my friend through—and, more importantly, the measure I hold for myself. How do I love the way my friend loves me?

The best day of my life was when my friend whispered a simple truth to me:

“You’re looking for religion, when you already have a relationship with Me.”

That changed everything. We did have a relationship. We always had. We talked, we laughed, He answered, He protected. That never changed—and I knew it never would.

It took me longer to feel “good enough” for my friend, but I finally understood something life-changing: My friend had always believed I was enough. In fact, more than enough.