When we say “God,” the mind tries to point somewhere—usually “up.” I carried that picture for years. But the Qur’an keeps steering me away from directions and into presence.

God is not in the sky or heaven or in upwards direction, he is omnipresent

Two verses anchor this for me:
“We created the human being and We know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than his jugular vein.” (Qāf 50:16)
“He is with you wherever you are.” (Al-Ḥadīd 57:4)

That isn’t a map reference. It’s nearness that doesn’t depend on distance. We already live with realities that permeate: air fills every room whether we notice it or not; gravity holds everything without sitting in a corner; light and signals move through walls without asking permission. If parts of creation work like that, the Creator isn’t smaller than His creation.

The fish that kept looking for the ocean

We wrote a little story about a fish who keeps asking, “Where’s the ocean?”—while swimming in it. That’s us sometimes: searching for a perfect place, a perfect mood, a cinematic sign, and missing the water we’re already inside—mercy, meaning, conscience, the quiet help that arrives right on time.

But God isn’t water or air. He isn’t a size, a shape, or a location. We can’t contain Him in our categories. Our minds are brilliant and limited at once—like trying to explain the internet to a beloved dog. Capacity matters. We meet the Divine as creatures, not as peers.

(If you want to share this with your kids, the fish story is a gentle doorway. I’ll drop the link at the end.)

Accept what you can neither comprehend nor see

Think of the wind: you never see it directly; you feel it and see its effects. Try to trap it in a jar and it stops being wind—it’s just still air. When we try to trap God in an image or a place, we don’t grasp Him; we only shrink our understanding.

Presence makes a difference. The more the noise quiets—the constant pings, the endless scroll, the filler that keeps the mind jittering—the more a steady, inner seeing wakes up. In our tradition we call that basīrah: a clarity of heart that recognizes what was always here. Not a flash of spectacle, just a patient noticing that deepens over time. You don’t go somewhere to find it; you arrive where you already are.

To find our story about the fish who kept looking for the ocean, only to find God’s signs…