Mostly What God Does

Mostly What God Does Plot Summary

Introduction

I remember the moment vividly. Standing in my kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows, I was preparing dinner while simultaneously checking emails and listening to my children argue in the next room. The weight of everyday life—deadlines, responsibilities, relationships—pressed heavily on my shoulders. Then suddenly, in the midst of chopping vegetables, I felt it: a profound sense of peace washing over me. Nothing externally had changed, yet everything felt different. In that ordinary moment, surrounded by the chaos of daily life, I experienced an extraordinary connection to something greater than myself. This intersection of the divine and the mundane lies at the heart of what it means to find God in our daily lives. We often think spiritual connection requires grand gestures or perfect circumstances—a quiet retreat, an uninterrupted prayer session, or a life-altering epiphany. But what if the most profound spiritual moments happen not when we step away from our lives, but when we dive deeper into them? This journey explores how love—divine love that lingers in our ordinary moments—transforms our perception of everything. From conquering our deepest fears to finding purpose beyond conventional success, these pages offer a roadmap for discovering that mostly what God does is love us, and how that love becomes the lens through which we can view our entire existence.

Chapter 1: From Fear to Faith: A Journey of Discovery

When my father died suddenly at age forty-nine, I was only sixteen years old. The foundation of my world crumbled beneath me, leaving me adrift in a sea of grief and uncertainty. Years later, when friends asked if this devastating loss had made me doubt my beliefs, my answer surprised even me: "No," I said. "This is when I need God most." This response wasn't born from a place of perfect faith or unwavering certainty. Rather, it emerged from the realization that in my darkest hour, when everything familiar had been stripped away, something remained—a presence I couldn't explain but deeply felt. It wasn't that my grief was less real or that answers came easily. Instead, I discovered that faith wasn't about having all the answers but about choosing to live alongside my questions. My journey from fear to faith didn't happen overnight. There were seasons where I felt distant from God, periods where I "checked out" spiritually for years at a time. I went through phases of enthusiastic Bible study followed by long stretches where I barely acknowledged my spiritual life. During one particularly difficult period in my thirties, I experienced what can only be described as spiritual torment—overwhelming guilt and paralyzing fear that God was condemning me. In desperation, I called a pastor I barely knew. His response changed everything: "What exactly is your concept of God here?" he asked. This simple question forced me to confront the distorted image I had created—a God of condemnation rather than compassion. The voice I had been hearing wasn't God's voice at all, but a counterfeit, one inconsistent with the God of love I had known. The journey from fear to faith isn't linear. It's a path marked by moments of clarity followed by stretches of confusion, periods of intimacy with God and seasons of distance. What I've discovered along the way is that God doesn't require perfection from us—just presence. He meets us exactly where we are, in all our doubt and certainty, our belief and unbelief. And in that meeting place, fear begins to transform into something new—not perfect faith, but a willingness to take the next step forward, trusting that we don't walk alone. When we move beyond our fear of God's judgment or our own inadequacy, we discover what has been true all along—that mostly what God does is love us. This simple truth becomes the foundation for a relationship that can withstand life's greatest challenges and deepest sorrows, opening us to a journey of discovery that continues to unfold with each passing day.

Chapter 2: The Present Tense: Finding God in Ordinary Moments

Where is God? This seemingly simple question has perplexed humanity for centuries. During a particularly stressful morning broadcast, I found myself facing this question in the most practical way. Minutes before going on air to host the TODAY Show for the first time, I was lying on my office floor with a blinding migraine, wondering how I would possibly make it through. In that moment of desperation, words from Psalm 121 suddenly surfaced in my memory: "I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth." This wasn't a dramatic vision or supernatural encounter—just ancient words appearing in my consciousness precisely when needed. I felt a flush of safety and confidence wash over me, not in myself but in God's presence. The assurance wasn't that everything would go perfectly, but that whatever happened, I wouldn't be alone. God had brought me to this moment and wouldn't abandon me now. These everyday moments of divine connection often arrive without fanfare. Like the time I was doing a meditation where the narrator instructed, "Now, let go of any effort, and just rest with God." I tried visualizing what resting with God might look like—lying on a blanket in a field? Sitting side by side on a couch? Each scenario felt awkward, like a bad first date. Then suddenly, I understood: I couldn't place God next to me, even in my imagination, because there is no place that can contain him. God is in the breeze, in my inhale and exhale, in my ears, in my hearing and listening. The ancient text declares that God's name is "I AM"—present tense. Not I Was or I Will Be, but I AM. Right here. Right now. This moment. Every moment. Eternally. God isn't confined to a specific location; he exists in this present moment. When we seek God's presence, we often look everywhere except where he actually is—in the now. A pastor once said God is like a radio station that's always on, always transmitting. Whether we tune in is up to us. Whether we turn up the volume or leave it as background noise—again, our choice. God doesn't wait to come until he is called. We don't summon him with pious practices and spiritual routines. These simply help us tune in, opening the window through which his light is ready to shine. He is present to us, whether or not we are present to him. This present-tense God speaks our language in ways uniquely tailored to each of us. I once heard a beautiful story about a woman who encountered God while attending Mass in a tiny Irish church. Despite being Jewish and not understanding a word of the Gaelic service, she felt "God warming his hands right inside me." In the particular language of every human heart, God is fluent. He knows what moves us and how to reach us, sometimes without words at all. Finding God in ordinary moments isn't about creating perfect spiritual conditions but about awakening to the divine presence that already permeates our everyday lives. You can remember him from the past and find confidence. You can imagine him in the future and find hope. But in the now, that's where you find him.

Chapter 3: Carrying the Fragrance: Love as the Ultimate Language

When I was fifty-one, I got my first tattoo—something I never imagined doing. For most of my life, I never felt strongly enough about anything to mark my body permanently with it. Yet here I am with three simple words inked on my arm: "All My Love." It's an exact copy of my father's handwriting, traced from a love letter he wrote my mother decades ago. These words have become more than a personal mantra or a link to my father. They encapsulate what all my years have taught me about faith: "All my love" is the simplest, most direct description of God's ambition for our world and his intentions toward us. I first encountered this revelation in Eugene Peterson's translation of Ephesians 5:1-2: "Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you." The simplicity of these words and their unadorned plainness struck me like a thunderbolt. Where is God and what is he up to? Mostly what God does is love you. How does God feel about me? Mostly what God does is love you. What job should I take? Where should I live? Have I broken my life? What does God think about the choices I've made? Mostly what God does is love you. This realization was a radical reframing of my concept of God. It's easy to conflate the critiques of our parents, our culture, or our own harsh self-judgments and subconsciously attribute them to God. "God" can become a nebulous, looming father figure whom we imagine sitting in scornful judgment. But to believe that mostly what God does is love us is the essence of faith: giving God the benefit of the doubt in a world that invites cynicism and despair. Like fragrance that lingers after someone has left the room, this love becomes something we carry with us into the world. In 2 Corinthians, Paul writes about how believers "spread the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere." I've always been struck by that word: fragrance. Not smell or odor, and certainly not stench—fragrance evokes something lovely and pleasing and, above all, gentle. This fragrance isn't something we manufacture or force; it emerges naturally from being in God's presence. The more time we spend with him, the more his essence becomes part of us—love, acceptance, gentleness, forgiveness, truth, and authentic peace. And when we're far from him, yes, the fragrance wears off. When we carry this fragrance into the world, we become channels of divine love in tangible ways. It's not about bullhorns and bumper stickers or accosting people on the street. It's about exuding the sweet aroma that comes from time spent with God—goodness, kindness, and love that lingers in the air long after we've gone. This is our great commission: to choose to believe in God's love, wrap ourselves in it, let it warm us from the inside, and then go out into the world carrying that fragrance wherever we go.

Chapter 4: When Doubt Meets Grace: Embracing Imperfection

Every night when I put my kids to bed, our prayers are part of the ritual. Usually, it's man-to-man coverage; my husband takes one child, and I take the other. Our prayers are heartfelt but somewhat routine—thanking God for the day, for our family, asking for protection and peace. I'd like to tell you our sublime children listen carefully, heads bowed in reverence. It's more like nonstop interjections: "Do I have gymnastics tomorrow?" or "Can I get new sneakers?" Sometimes when we're struggling with someone close to us, our prayers take on a different tenor: "Please, God, help Joe come to see why he is wrong" or "Lord, help Maggie with her tendencies toward self-centeredness." We're praying, but with an agenda—often for others to change rather than seeking transformation in ourselves. Author Shauna Niequist once said something that changed how I think about prayer: When you don't have words, use what you do have. Pray with your imagination. Sometimes when my feelings betray me, when I feel distant or angry or afraid to be vulnerable, I pray by picturing my loved ones at peace and content. I imagine my sister—serene, smiling, laughing—surrounded by nature where she feels most at home. There's no agenda other than the joy I feel conjuring my loved ones' joy. This approach to prayer opened a path for me during times when conventional prayer felt impossible. I realized God doesn't need perfect words or pious exaltations. He's looking for the mess—in other words, he's looking for us. I've had similar revelations about doubt. Everyone trying to walk a spiritual path in this flawed world grapples with doubt at some point. If you never have, perhaps you haven't thought about it hard enough. But doubt isn't a lack of faith or the opposite of faith—it's an aspect of faith, a feature rather than a flaw. Doubt is faith being worked out, like a muscle being strengthened. In the Gospels, when Jesus appeared to his disciples after his resurrection, they were described as "startled" and "frightened," thinking they'd seen a ghost. Jesus asked, "Why do doubts rise in your minds?" then invited them closer: "Touch me and see." In the face of their doubt and fear, Jesus essentially said, "Come closer." Our skepticism and questioning become opportunities for deeper connection, not reasons to keep our distance. I've wondered aloud to God about difficult questions: Why does God allow suffering? Why would a loving God permit evil to persist? Why doesn't God intervene more decisively? Sometimes what I hear back isn't a complete answer but an assurance: "It is not over yet. Evil will not prevail. I am doing it. You want me to crush evil in one decisive blow, but that would crush humanity itself. I'm on a different path—demonstration instead of destruction, showing rather than forcing, love rather than violence. This takes time. I'm not done yet." When we work out our questions in God's presence, complete answers may not be possible, but relationship can be. Faith invites us to coexist with the doubt and belief within us—to live with our questions and live with God simultaneously, rather than alone with one or the other. This space where doubt meets grace becomes sacred ground where we discover that God embraces our whole selves, imperfections and all.

Chapter 5: Mostly What God Does: Transforming Perspective Through Love

I had a vivid dream in the night that jolted me awake. I'd seen images from a charity commercial for Mercy Ships—people with disfiguring facial tumors and children with advanced cleft palates walking in pain, ostracized by their communities. The thought that woke me: How does that person feel that "mostly what God does" is love them? A flush of shame washed over me. What a Western, privileged view of spirituality. Why must people suffer? Worse: Why must some people suffer while others flourish? This is doubt's mic-drop moment, the crucible of faith. There is no satisfying answer. It makes no sense. It is not right. It is not fair. These questions are so distressing that I fully understand why they often become fatal stumbling blocks to belief in God. But our valid spiritual questions should never prevent us from doing what we can do. Mostly what we can do is love them. How does anyone suffering unfairly feel that "mostly what God does" is love them? When they feel that love from us. On the Mercy Ships, doctors say healing begins before any medicine is administered or surgical incision made. It starts when someone says hello, shakes a patient's hand, looks them in the eye, and sees past their disfigurement, as if to say, "I know you're in there. I see you." A nurse on the ship, speaking through tears, explained: "People have been telling them their whole lives that they can't look at them. Someone has to look them in the eye and tell them, 'You're human and I recognize that in you.'" When we feel we can't bear to come close to suffering, imagine where we'd be if God took that approach with us. He never does. He looks past what's disfiguring about us—our self-absorption, pettiness, greed, deception—and sees our souls, our hearts, who he designed us to be. In this immense and unfinished work of healing the world's brokenness, God invites us to participate. He deputizes us as his agents to spread the love we see in him everywhere. This isn't "God-light" or a feel-good ideology with a dash of divine mixed in. This is the hardest stuff. But when we truly believe it, it transforms us from within. I once encountered a homeless man with two young children holding signs asking for food. After buying them dinner, I walked away feeling I'd done my good deed. But on my way home, I had a poignant revelation: What would Jesus have done? He would have bought the meal, then sat down and dined with them. He would have asked the man his story and queried what else the family needed. The kind of love Jesus calls us to doesn't dabble or keep its distance; it plunges deeply and invests intently. This isn't meant to induce guilt but to inspire aspiration. We can't attain the level of unconditional love that God maintains. But filled with the love God has shown us, we find ourselves with abundance to share. Divine love transforms our perspective—of ourselves, others, and the world around us—enabling us to see as God sees and love as God loves, carrying that transforming presence into every corner of our lives.

Chapter 6: Purpose Beyond Success: The Beautiful Shape of Faith

I once heard a pastor say God is like a radio station that's always on, always transmitting. Whether we tune in is up to us. Whether we turn up the volume or leave it as background noise—again, our choice. He is present to us, whether or not we are present to him. Purpose is similar. It's always there, always transmitting, but whether we tune in is our choice. When people ask me about my purpose, I know what it isn't. It isn't to be on television or be famous; it isn't even to tell important stories. Since childhood, I've known I'm a communicator and explainer. I always had a vision of myself standing at the front of a room, gesturing, pointing things out. Initially, I thought this meant becoming a teacher. Later, I discovered broadcast journalism and then law school. I love words—speaking them, writing them, using them to persuade and teach. But our purpose goes beyond what we happen to be good at. Even our gifts can be used in ways that fall short of love. I believe we feel in sync with ourselves and with God when we do what we're uniquely suited to do for something meaningful, in service to something greater than ourselves. My father used to call me "Last Word" because in any argument, I kept talking even when it was against my own interests. God has given me more than a big mouth; he's given me a voice. He has woven my life into a surprising tapestry I never could have imagined, far beyond what I deserve or would have dared to dream. Though I still don't have perfect clarity about my purpose, I believe it boils down to one word: Share. To share what we've been given is an act of faith and trust in God. It doesn't come naturally to me. I'm congenitally fearful and worried, anxious that I'm always moments away from calamity. These feelings cannot be from God. To be fearful of losing what we've been given, to hoard what we have—emotionally, spiritually—is to forget that it has always been a gift from God. God has blessed me beyond comprehension and certainly beyond merit. It makes no sense to me. I don't deserve it. I didn't earn it. The only sense I can make of it is that God gave me these blessings not to keep or hoard but to share—to give what I've been given, to tell what I've been told. There's a beautiful quote from Frederick Buechner: "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." Our purpose emerges where our unique gifts intersect with genuine need. For me, that intersection is sharing this singular truth: Mostly what God does is love you. During my first communion service as a volunteer at my church, I stood beside my pastor holding the cup while he held the plate of bread. One by one, people came forward—every kind of person, hearts open. With each person, he would say, "The body of Christ, broken for you," as they took the wafer. They would dip it into the cup I held, and I would meet their eyes and say, "The blood of Christ, shed for you." This ritual repeated again and again, yet felt anything but rote. Each interaction seemed unique, weighted with significance—God's private moment with every human heart. I was struck anew that God's promise of rescue, his great redemption pact with humanity, is personal and specific, addressed to each individual. It belongs to me, to you, to them. In this, there is no "other." But most importantly, it belongs to us together. This is the beautiful shape of faith—a circle where God, you, belief, blessing, and joy all intermingle in one divine revolution of interconnected goodness. It is clarity and mystery simultaneously, answers and questions, satisfaction alongside dissatisfaction, divinity alongside humanity. If we can believe that mostly what God does is love us, how different would we be? How different would our lives be? How different would our world be?

Summary

Throughout these pages, we've traced a path from fear to faith, from doubt to grace, from isolation to communion. The journey reveals a profound truth: God meets us precisely where we are—in our ordinary moments, our imperfections, our questions, and our struggles. His presence isn't reserved for perfect circumstances or flawless devotion. It permeates every aspect of our lives, offering transformation through a love that lingers long after momentary encounters. What emerges from these stories and reflections is an invitation to live differently. First, to practice presence—being fully aware in each moment, attentive to God's voice speaking our unique language. Second, to carry the fragrance of love into every interaction, looking past what's disfiguring in ourselves and others to see the divine image beneath. And finally, to discover purpose not in grand achievements but in the intersection of our deepest gladness and the world's deepest hunger. When we believe that mostly what God does is love us, we become channels of that love, creating ripples of transformation that extend far beyond ourselves. The path forward isn't about perfection but presence, not about certainty but surrender, not about having all the answers but about trusting the One who holds us through every question. In this sacred space where our humanity meets divine love, we find not only comfort for today but hope for tomorrow—a love that lingers and leads us home.

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Savannah Guthrie

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