I believe in God because something inside me cries out for Him. That ache inside that no one sees; no one says; no one dares. The reaching, growing, longing part of me that must believe.

I believe because my body and my soul yearn for something more.

Because to not believe is death of hope, deadness of soul. The end of me.

Because I crave God.

I want Him.

Because if I don’t believe I’ll waste my life filling this hole with every kind of good and it won’t work so I’ll reach for evil and that won’t work either and then I’ll die having missed the meaning.

I believe because He is mystery and I sometimes know moments of brightest clarity when the fog lifts and I see His face.

That’s why I believe in God.

I believe in God because of beauty and because children do and because He makes sense and because I must believe.

I believe in God because He makes sense. And nothing else does; not Darwin or Plato or all the Greek myths.

They all sound like stories made up by angry men— and women rarely believe that something comes out of nothing and that the future holds no hope.

And deep inside—when all is still—and no one speaks—and I can hear, Someone whispers. And I know it’s Him.

That’s why I believe in God.

I believe in God because of beauty. Because the intricacies of deep pink peonies outside my window beckon bumbles bees to come and hide…

Because green is moss and forest and leaf and sea and hundreds of hues in between…

Because of Sequoias and Redwoods and Oaks and Cedars.

Because on the darkest night the stars shine brilliant…

I believe in God because I can see Him and hear Him and smell Him in all He has made. Singing in rain, sighing in gusts of invisible wind, whispering in softest snowfall.

Covering over everything ugly.

All around me beauty reigns, awakening my heart to see something more.

I believe in God because He has left traces of who He is for all to see.

Because I feel His skin in every embrace, and sense His breath in every face.

Because of beauty.

That’s why I believe in God.