I Am Here, I Am Everywhere

Every day is different. Some days, the beauty feels buried, hard to find beneath the weight of suffering. On those days, my eyes seem to catch only the pain, the loss, the unanswered prayers. And then there are other days, days when beauty insists on being seen. Days when God feels so close it’s as if He’s woven into the air itself.

The last few days have been like that. Full of quiet, holy moments. Moments where my body felt almost alive with the Spirit, like something inside me was humming, attuned to a deeper frequency. Over and over again, I could sense Him whispering:

I am here. I am everywhere.

Friday I walked onto the paediatric ward at Connaught, often one of the hardest wards I work on. A place where tiny bodies carry impossibly big burdens. A place where heartbreak sits side by side with hope. And yet, that morning, I could feel God already there, waiting.

When I arrived, one of my mentors was already on the ward, fully immersed in mentoring. And she was doing it beautifully. She was teaching and modelling patient-centred care, something that, in this environment, is not always prioritised or even possible.

In a system stretched thin by limited resources, overwhelming patient loads, and constant urgency, care often becomes task-focused out of necessity. You do what you can to survive the shift. You move fast. You attend to the most critical needs. There isn’t always space to slow down, to listen, to see the patient beyond the diagnosis.

So to walk in and witness patient-centred care unfolding in real time, to see a nurse pausing, explaining, involving caregivers, treating a child not as a task but as a person, felt like a massive win. A quiet miracle. Evidence that something is changing. That seeds planted through mentoring are beginning to grow.

And while, like most days, the ward was full of sick pikins, there was something different in the air. Maybe it was my perspective. Maybe it was grace. I’m not sure. But suddenly, I could see the beauty woven through the suffering.

Two young boys lay in beds next to each other, giggling and teasing one another, laughter bubbling up between IV lines and worn blankets. For a moment, they were just boys, playful, mischievous, alive.

I know we’re not supposed to have favourites, but there’s a little ten-month-old pikin on the ward with a massive abdominal mass, so large that every time I see him, it feels like it’s grown again. His tiny body dwarfed by something so unfair, so heavy. Every time I visit, I spend time with him. I play. I talk. I let him grab my fingers. His big, wide eyes always watch me carefully, curiously, trying to work out who this strange-looking person is. 

On Friday though I was greeted with smiles. With trust. He reached for me and rested his head against my arm, completely at ease, staring up at me with a wide, contented grin. In that moment, the world felt still. Sacred.

I whispered, Thank you, God, for moments like this.

On the ship, the wards are often filled with music and dancing. Joy spills out easily there, life-changing surgeries, legs straightened, tumours removed, stories wrapped in celebration. That is not the reality of my work here at Connaught though.

But on Friday visitors from a local church came onto the ward. And we sang. One of my favourite songs, Tell Papa God Tenki. The caregivers sang. The nurses sang. The children listened. And together, in the middle of illness and uncertainty, we praised God.

The visitors handed out water and food. I watched gratitude soften the faces of weary mothers. I watched children’s eyes light up as they unwrapped their small treats, joy flickering where fear had lived moments before.

And once again, I felt it, that gentle, steady whisper:
I am here. I am everywhere.

When I reflect on moments life this I find myself returning again and again to Psalm 139:11–12 “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.”

It speaks of a God who is present in every conceivable place and moment, so present that there is nowhere we can go to escape Him. Not the highest heights. Not the deepest depths. Not the furthest sea. And not even the paediatric ward at Connaught, where suffering feels thick in the air and questions have no easy answers.

There are days here when the darkness feels overwhelming. Days when the pain is loud and relentless, when tiny bodies are burdened with illnesses far too big for them, when mothers sit beside beds holding fear in their eyes, when hope feels fragile and thin. On those days, I find myself asking the same quiet, aching question: Where are you, God, in this? Where are you in the suffering that doesn’t make sense, in the stories that don’t resolve, in the places that feel forgotten?

But slowly, gently, I am learning to trust what my eyes don’t always see at first. That God has not gone anywhere. That His presence doesn’t disappear just because the light feels dim. That the darkness has no power to hide Him, no matter how heavy it feels.

I see Him in the nurse who pauses to practice patient-centred care in a system that rarely allows for it. I see Him in two boys giggling from their hospital beds, choosing laughter in the middle of illness. I see Him in a ten-month-old pikin resting his head against my arm, trusting without understanding why. I hear Him in songs sung softly on a ward that knows too much grief. I feel Him in the gratitude of mothers receiving food and water, in children unwrapping small gifts like they are treasures.

It is impossible to hide from Him, not because He is watching from a distance, but because He is already here. Holding. Seeing. Staying. God is in control, yes, but more than that, He is near. He is present in the shadows, quietly providing light even when I can’t yet see where it’s coming from.

Sometimes what I need most isn’t answers or explanations, but stillness. To stop. To breathe. To really look. Because when I do, when I listen instead of rushing past, I hear it again. That gentle, steady whisper beneath everything else, the same one that has followed me through these days:

I am here.
I am everywhere.

And in that knowing, even the darkness begins to soften.