Are You There God? It's Me...

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. I’ve been to church. I didn’t feel anything special in there God. Even though I wanted to. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you.” ― Judy Blume, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret
I first read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at nine years old, and it felt like someone had cracked open my heart and put it on the page. Like Margaret, I had questions about God. But unlike her, I never felt like I was talking to a stranger. God was always there—listening, patient, present. Not something to be chased, but someone I was always in quiet conversation with.
I grew up in the rhythms of the Catholic Church. By eight, I could recite the entire Mass and often stood in our living room pretending to read the gospel from my white prayer book. Even then, I sensed God wasn’t confined to a church—and I never believed one religion held all the truth. I went to VBS at the Lutheran church, youth group at the Methodist church, and had my “altar call” outside of Catholicism.
Still, I loved being Catholic. I didn’t know why at the time, but I think it was the tradition—the rhythm and structure of the Mass felt grounding to me, even as others poked fun at “stand, sit, kneel, repeat.” There was something holy in the ritual.
At 17, I taught Sunday school, preparing sixth graders for confirmation. It was the first time I remember God speaking through me, showing me part of my purpose. I still keep the handcrafted bookmarks they made tucked into the Bible I used then—a small, sacred reminder of that early faith.
But life moved on, and so did I. My marriage wasn’t against church—just indifferent—and over time, that indifference seeped into me. Church became an occasional event, but my dialogue with God never stopped. I still whispered prayers into the dark, still found peace on long drives alone.
When my boys were young, I tried returning to church through a vibrant non-denominational community. The energy was high, the music uplifting—but something didn’t sit right. The teachings felt narrow, the tone exclusionary. I quietly drifted away again.
Years later, as a yoga teacher, I was invited to teach at a Catholic church. I began weaving scripture with yoga philosophy—grounding my classes in the teachings of Jesus. I was writing daily meditations, and once again, God showed me part of my purpose.
During that season, I also began absorbing Buddhist teachings almost by osmosis—through movement, meditation, and a growing hunger for deeper truth. It fit my philosophical mind and felt like a quiet recognition of a path I’d already begun walking as a child.
The first book I read on Buddhism was Buddhist Bootcamp by Timber Hawkeye. It was a little mainstream—Buddhism for Dummies, almost—but one quote continues to guide my life:
“The opposite of what you know is also true.”
Timber writes, “No matter how certain we are of our version of the truth, we must humbly accept the possibility that someone who believes the exact opposite could also be right... This is the key to forgiveness, patience, and understanding.”
Reading that affirmed what I’d always felt: my Catholic upbringing didn’t make my faith better than anyone else’s. I’ve always believed we’re all children of God—each inherently good. But I also saw how some religions boxed God in, using fear and exclusion to protect their platforms.
That quote helped me walk my spiritual path with more clarity. I’ve learned to take what speaks to my soul and leave what doesn’t. I don’t need to agree with every part of a belief system to feel connected to God.
As I studied more, I learned that Buddhist philosophy isn’t about worship, but about a way of being. It affirmed what I already sensed: a spiritual life centered in presence and compassion.
In Living Buddha, Living Christ, Thich Nhat Hanh’s gentle way of bridging faith traditions affirmed something I had long felt: truth is bigger than any one religion.
He states, “The teaching of living happily in the present moment can be found in the teaching of Jesus Christ... 'There will be a day when you will see that I am in my Father and you are in me and I am in you.' That is the teaching of interbeing... There are many of us who practice according to the teachings of Jesus and the Buddha and do not find any conflict. And that is very good for the cause of peace and unity and harmony in the world.”
I felt something soften inside. It was like being given permission to trust what my heart had always known: that love is greater than any one language of faith, that God cannot be boxed, and that living with presence, peace, and compassion transcends all labels.
People often assumed they knew where I stood in my faith, but I usually surprised them. I have a cross on the wall, a Buddha on the shelf, prayer beads in my hand each morning, and a Bible worn soft with use. Some weeks I go to Mass on Saturday and Buddhist meditation on Sunday. I see the parallels across faiths and philosophies—and that keeps me both humble and open.
For a long time, I kept this private—not out of shame, but to avoid the burden of explaining myself. Letting others assume was easier than untangling their misunderstandings.
But now I see: this was another way I had “tucked the fringe”—folding in something sacred to be more easily understood, more acceptable.
God never asked me to hide.
Every prayer from childhood, every spiritual widening, every sacred conversation in the dark was preparing me—to share, to bridge, to speak for those whose faith stretches beyond walls and doctrines.
The little girl who once talked to God late into the night never stopped--
She just learned new languages through breath, silence, presence, scripture, story.

Are you there, God?
It’s me.
Still me.
Finally, fully me.
 

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