God, broken

At church, I spoke
It was different this time
I tried to be honest, to be me.

I said that God seemed distant
It's hard to enter the city of refuge
When you can't see where it is.

Afterwards, a friend, made a point to talk to me:
"Your conception of God must be broken
To find out what is real, beneath".

And now, as I sit in church, in a new country
I am confused by the curious language and odd practice
And amazed by the cherry blossom on the tree outside: is that God?

Why do we do these things?
Strange rituals, largely empty
And sit lonely, all believing something else to be true, really.

I have a son, two years old
And he is wonder, and wonderful
I see God in him, clearly.