I knew something was wrong. They've lost the house. They're getting evicted. The small dirt front yard, in the middle of my impoverished neighborhood, was full of people. It's the landlord. Maybe a realtor. But the small crowd didn't appear very official. Just a knot of people, looking lost and doing more standing than talking. I walked over to the crooked metal fence and stood there until someone whispered, "Mae died last night."

My mind began to reel. Mae was the mother of four children and couldn't have been more than 27 years old. I joined the hollow silence. They hadn't lost their house…they'd lost their mother. Her youngest boy, played oblivious in the backyard while his relatives cried and whispered. The sidewalk to the house was covered with chalk drawings. There were hearts, done in yellow, with the unsure print of Mae's 9-year-old daughter, "We miss you. We love you."

It's been over a week now and I've watched her second son sit on the curb and stare blankly into the street. I've hugged Mae's dad and listened to cousins and aunts cry. We've brought over food and sat in the small kitchen and heard the bizarre story for the third time now. An aneurysm. She was in the bedroom fighting with her boyfriend, started cussing angrily and then passed out. She was dead in two days.

Who is God? What does He look like on the corner of 2nd Avenue when four little kids don't have a mom? When their three different fathers are either dead, in jail or senseless crack addicts? In my mind I leaf through all the names that I know for God… Faithful One, Good Shepherd, Prince of Peace, Redeemer, Creator…but each seems so defined, bounded. This moment needed something more. When Moses asked what God called Himself he got an enigmatic reply. I AM. Moses must have thought, "You are what?" It was the kind of title that gives my wandering mind way too much room. Mystery makes our hope possible but the not knowing doesn't do much for all my doubts. But the God who named Himself, knows of my weakness. He was about to show me something, not unlike a bush that doesn't burn.

In the middle of a hot summer afternoon I was standing in Mae's dirt front yard, holding her daughter in my arms. Somewhere between the front door and her living room, that ambiguous name I AM lost a little bit of its mystery. I stood in the cramped kitchen and tried to even imagine that there could be some redemption for this family that has suffered through so much tragedy and lost so many souls to drugs, prison and simple apathy. There were a few pieces of furniture in the room, the walls and floor were bare, the emptiness felt heavy. I pleaded. Show me something God. Give me a clue that You're here. There was no still small voice, no assurance, not even the hint of a sign. All I saw was Aaron, a neighbor boy, sitting on the couch.

Aaron lives around the corner from me. He and Mae's oldest son roam the streets after school and into the night, causing trouble, hanging out, passing the time. Aaron has been at Mae's house every day since her death. All day. Aaron walks the four blocks from his house and sits quietly on the old front porch or squeezes in on a couch full of relatives who are busy drinking beer and shaking their heads in disbelief of their loss. Aaron is not family. He was not invited. Even Mae's son hardly acknowledges him. But Aaron comes every day to take his place among this handful of weary hearts. He'd rather be loyal than comfortable. All from a boy who just barely passed the 5th grade a month ago.

Despite anger and hurt of his own, Aaron was there. This boy doesn't say much, he doesn't fix anything, he hardly moves at all. But his presence spoke volumes to me of hope, purpose and even peace. Aaron was looking a little like his creator…I AM.

God…the great I AM. He is. Eternally so. Though our bodies plead for Him to be healer, our minds beg for His peace and our souls cry out for assurance, sometimes the great physician, the prince of peace and the God who walked through walls in glory seems an eternity away. Mae died, her kids remain in chaos and I'm fighting a chronic loss of faith. And our hearts deepest, purest desire is for God to act, to fix, to do. But He doesn't. Not always. So what are we left with? What is the promise? Where is the hope? All in a name…I AM. Now. He is. Like Aaron on the couch, abiding us each moment. When bodies are breaking, God is here. Each instant that nearly deafens our hearts with its chaos still contains that sweet whisper of God. When I can barely believe divine Goodness exists God is here. I AM. Not "I will be" once sin, suffering and disease are buried under shovelfuls of eternities dirt. I AM now. Not "I was" when seas were splitting, storms were stopping and stiff bodies, full of death, were standing alive. But I AM. Right here in Mae's house.

We beg of God to be active but sometimes His miraculous hand moves in ways human eyes can't even imagine, let alone see. So we assume He is gone. Perhaps this is why He took on such an odd name as I AM. It's a name that leaves room for miracles. A title that doesn't so much describe someone as it destroys their limitations. This mystery of a name reminds us, when we are blind to His graces and mercies, that there is no need to fear.

For today, this moment, standing in a tiny home where there are floorboards missing and windows broken, the very name I AM cries out that the right time is always now for God to be present. There is no waiting. No time of testing. No season of mystery. God is in this moment. Every moment. He is I AM. Always. Like Aaron on the couch. God never removes Himself from our pain. He doesn't clutter up our silent mourning with trite reminders of the faithfulness that has been and the hope that is to come. He doesn't contort from the discomfort and only reappear when our lives are more in line with our perceptions of His promises.

I am grateful beyond words that God insisted on carrying this particular name because four small souls are desperate for a God that is. And me, I couldn't bear to walk that chalk covered sidewalk if the God that is wasn't before me, beside me, within me and behind me.

Aaron, loyal Aaron, challenges me to be a better girl and reminds me that God pours His gifts into hearts and hands that need Him most. Aaron is gifted. In tragedy we are quick to try to fix, attempt to do and eager to act…but Aaron had the courage to simply be. And his courage reminded me of an ancient conversation. Moses questioned the mystery of God's anonymity and God answered by giving a glimpse of the even greater mystery of his eternal presence.

So we're hanging on here. Sitting on couches. Listening. Holding children. Believing.

* all names and identifying details have been changed to protect anonymity. © Amy Beth Augustin Barlow 2003