In Positano, I duck into a church, where street sounds are hushed and air stifles and Italian women genuflect, loudly kissing their fingertips and offering the gesture up to God. I automatically look up, to the tops of the beams and jewel-colored glass, knowing that the builders of these churches hid tiny details up high, where they could be seen only by the eyes of God. Legend says that when a craftsman was asked why he was spending time carving a bird on the top of a wooden beam that would soon be covered by the roof, he answered, “Because God sees.”

And although I don’t see a thing, I know He does. I can’t hide from Him forever.

Or, really, at all.

Closing my eyes, suddenly brimming with tears, I drop my chin and pray. Lord, I cry. That’s all — one word —Lord. In a rush of emotions lacking coherence, I quietly offer it up to Him, what little I have to give.

My little carved bird may be a disaster — it may be just a lump of wood. I may not know how to create something delicate and beautiful with the finesse of a master craftsman. I may be intimidated by the church’s beauty, terrified to climb up the scaffolding, afraid to cut into that block of wood, certain I will mess it all up.

And yet He still sees. He knows that I’m there.

“Thereafter, Hagar used another name to refer to the Lord, who had spoken to her. She said, “You are the God who sees me.” Genesis 16:13 NLT