God was at my grandparents. God joined me and grandpa on the riding lawnmower around the yard, blowing warm summer air on my face as I sat on my grandfather's lap, making circles in the shortening grass. He was the secret ingredient and the magic in the corn boiled in the pot by my grandmother, which was always better than what we had at home. As I got older, God joined me in the woodworking I did with grandpa. He was patience, accurate, measuring, irreversible, and loving. God became my friend, with my grandmother, telling me our family history, her history, baby stories I did not know. God evolved into my love of history, of our resistance to Rome, Greece, and our enemies throughout the ages. God was always invoked by grandpa, who knew history as good as I. God was the only friend I had in my awkward years of being a history buff, the only person who would sit and talk with me. God was invoked as grandpa took me to his old, decrepit shul, where the benches for a few hundred held only a few souls. Where did God go? Why did He leave this community? 

 

Now, it's years later. I feel God has not only left my grandparents, but me. They are old. They do not hear me, they do not listen. I cry out, I try to help, I try to reach out, but there is silence. I am alone. My grandparents are shadows, silhouettes of the giants they were. The great and mighty God who would split seas and save the rabbis of chassidic lore is absent when I struggle, silent as I do my best. The blank stare is the highest praise I can get now. I know God is out there, the same way my grandparents are. But I only wish I knew what I could do to bring Him back, to return to the days of old, to gardens and lawnmowers, to home-grown corn and burning sun, to religious joy, and the childhood confidence of knowing you are right, and all is well.