As a little girl, I was told God is in everything. In the carpet? Yes. In the table leg? Yes. I wondered at that, moving my hand through the shag flooring, watching tiny fleas hop around, having multiplied in the heat of Southern California’s summer. Is God like a flea? Or is God also, in the flea? Is God in the poison the flea injects into me when it bites me? Is God in me? It’s questions like these that busied my brain for hours. If God is big, how can God be so small, too. God is infinite. The only answer the logical grown-ups gave us. But when I thought of infinity, my head whirled, like it was going to be spun off in the tornado like in The Wizard of Oz movie. My head in the gray whirlpool of clouds along with tables, chairs, and the Wicked Witch. Is God in the Witch? Everything and everyone. Even me? I closed my eyes, searching. I looked at my hand, pondering. It’s like this, I’d tell little me, God is a blanket, threaded through all that is or you can imagine.