I have a friend, by the name of Harry.
Harry is not hairy.
Harry has been with me on every major adventure of my life for the last 25 years.
Harry is a lizard.
Harry is a plastic lizard.
I have no idea why Harry is a friend, he just is.
I have no idea why Harry has gone with me everywhere, he just has.
I am not sure one could even say that Harry is a friend.
Harry is a plastic lizard after all.
But I can see Harry. I can touch and pick up Harry.
I can put him in a suitcase or my Bible pouch, or on my truck dashboard.
We cannot see God. We cannot reach out and touch God.
Like with Harry, God does not audibly talk back to me.
Harry is something I can see, something I can touch, something I can only have a one-way conversation with, yet I call it a friend.
So how can something that I cannot see, cannot touch, cannot converse with, be a friend.
How can there be faith in that which seemly does not exist.
That, I think, is the greatest bit of faith one can have. And, the hardest.
(note: the picture is not actually Harry... Harry is camera shy and did not want his picture taken)