God, Capital She
Sometimes, an author or a theologist will speak of God
as She. God has always been something masculine,
or fatherly, or so far from me that He cannot possibly be human.
But when someone says She -- a single added letter,
a softening of that harsh “h” -- She draws closer to this world.
She could look like my mother, curls sprouting from Her head
like dandelions. Like V, the only female minister I’ve ever known.
She could look like me. I see God in my grandmother’s hands,
thin fingers whispering over pages of her Bible. I see Her
in the women of my church, preaching from passion
rather than pulpit. I see Her in the female cardinals, pinked
with pale feathers, the irises blooming violet, the hens
warming their nests. God is abundant in what is soft,
what is gentle. Maybe She is not so different from He after all.
But I cannot help but feel that rush every time I hear She, a glimpse
of my own femininity in the divine. I cannot help my desire
(however human it is) to see a sliver of my reflection in God.
If God really is She, then maybe She is more like Her creations
than I thought. It makes sense; who else can give birth
to the universe, the oceans lapping at white swaths of sand,
the verdant woods teeming with life,
but She?
Annabelle Smith studies creative writing at Barbara Ingram School For the Arts. Her work can be read on Every Day Fiction and in a forthcoming publication by TRNSFR.
Amethyst Review 