I have an easier time seeing God in some things than others. A beautiful sunset? Certainly. A newborn baby, the ocean, an unexpected kindness, or the person who appears at exactly the right moment? That all feels reasonably divine.
A traffic jam, an overflowing laundry basket, or the person who sends a passive-aggressive email? Less obvious.
Yet the lesson does not say God is in everything inspirational. It says everything.
I don’t think that means God created every painful circumstance or approves of every harmful behavior. The Course has already been clear that fear and attack are not of God. It may mean nothing is outside the possibility of being used to remember Him.
Everything I see can become a doorway. The difficult person can reveal where I still believe attack protects me. The body I criticize can become a way to practice care instead of judgment. A delay can show me how quickly I trade peace for control.
Even an ordinary object can remind me that nothing exists entirely by itself. Someone designed it, made it, transported it, sold it, and placed it within a web of lives I will never see. Nothing is truly separate.
That may be where God is found—not as an object hidden inside everything, but as the connection I usually overlook.
The ego sees separate things with separate purposes. This person can help me. That person can hurt me. This outcome proves I’m succeeding. That one threatens who I am. Everything is evaluated according to what it can give or take away.
Love sees relationship. It recognizes that how I meet one person affects how I meet the next. The judgment I practice does not stay confined to its original target. Neither does forgiveness. Everything becomes part of the classroom.
I don’t have to wait for quiet, beautiful conditions to connect with God. The actual material of my day is enough. God can be remembered while I wash dishes, answer an irritating message, sit in a waiting room, or look at a face I’ve judged.
Not because every experience feels holy. Because every experience offers a choice between fear and love.
If God is in everything I see, where is God in illness, loss, conflict, or uncertainty? Not in the suffering itself, but in the love that remains available within it: the hand being held, the courage to tell the truth, the strength for the next step, the peace that arrives before there is any logical reason for it.
Fear points to the form and says, “God is absent.” Love points to what cannot be destroyed and says, “Look again.”
I can become willing to believe there is more here than I currently perceive. Maybe I notice connection. Maybe I notice an opportunity to forgive. Maybe I notice that love has not left the room.
God is in everything I see because everything can help me remember what is real. Even this. Especially this.