I was five years old when I discovered God is real.

My memory begins well into the evening. A favorite aunt and uncle reclined on my parents’ teal-and-green-patterned sofa. I remember the adults’ easy conversation and my thrill at being allowed to stay up and listen.

Until I heard the words no child wants to hear: “Michele, it’s time for bed.”

Banished! To go to bed meant to miss out on the evening’s fun. By morning, my aunt and uncle would be long gone. Thus, I did what any child does in such an utterly unfair situation.

I threw a fit.

Here’s where my memory grows fuzzy. One moment my father ordered me to bed. The next I’m buried under the covers in my darkened bedroom, crying. Only vague images sit in between, including a tantrum worthy of Scarlett O’Hara. I’m pretty sure I deserved an Oscar.

Alone, however, I felt nothing but regret.

That’s when my five-year-old self prayed.

Dear God, help my aunt or uncle to come into my room. So I can say I’m sorry. And goodbye. Please, God. Please!

It was a child’s prayer, simple and selfish.

Then.

Light spilled from the hallway. Framed by soft yellow, my uncle entered quietly, walked to my bed, knelt down.

“I’m sorry!” Tears poured out with my words. Within seconds, we hugged and he was gone. The hall light vanished, as did my grief.

But I would never be the same.

God came. I called to Him, and He answered.

Decades later, as I stretched out on the family room couch recovering from cancer surgery, I thought of how God accomplished far more in the heart of that five-year-old girl than a second chance. He knew I needed to see Him as real. Not some two-dimensional, flannel-board cutout. Not a God “up there” or “out there.”

A God for me. With me. Close enough to touch. He knew a day would come when I’d need more than cliches, cute stories, and neatly packaged feelings.

And so He gave me Himself. In a powerful, memory-searing way.

But belief wasn’t always that easy. Real life turned out to be far more complicated. Prayers didn’t always get answered. Sometimes it seemed God stayed far away. From my perch on the couch, I didn’t blame God for cancer. I didn’t feel bitter, angry, or unjustly treated. I just felt confused. Hadn’t I done everything right? I’d eaten healthy, taken care of myself. I exercised five days a week, slept eight hours a night. Heck, I flossed. Daily. That deserved bonus points.

I wonder if this is how the disciples felt in those tension-filled days after Jesus’ death. They’d banked everything on Jesus being real, the true Son of God. They’d seen Him turn water into wine, heal the sick, even raise the dead back to life.

But they’d also seen stakes driven into His hands and a sword thrust into His side. Those who stuck around, who didn’t flee in fear and panic, who watched His final exhalation. He rescued and resurrected countless others. Couldn’t He have done the same for Himself?

Were they bitter? Not that I can tell. Confused? Yes. And heartbroken.

Then light spilled from the hallway.

“On the evening of that first day of the week . . . Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you!’” {John 20:19}

All it took was the presence of Jesus for terror and tension to flee. Not a change in circumstances. Not a reassurance of how the rest of the story would play out. Not even a solid answer to the question of why.

Instead, presence.

Peace isn’t a byproduct of control, the payout of a happy conclusion. Peace is the infiltrating, life-giving presence of a very real God. One who loves nothing more than to step into the middle of darkened rooms and impossible circumstances, close enough to touch.

It took me half a lifetime to learn this lesson, to see my need for presence over perfection. From the beginning, my fantasy of a perfect life was just that — a fantasy. It grew from the innocent and untried imagination of a girl who wanted her life to read like a fairy tale.

But I’d forgotten that even fairy tales have villains and hardships and unexpected twists in plot. I kept holding out for my happy ending, but missed the fact that I’d already received it.

A hero who pushed past my fear with the reassurance of His very real presence.

To the five-year-old crying in her bedroom and to the grown-up woman who needed His touch from her place on the family room couch.

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We love Michele’s story and hope this excerpt from her beautiful book Undone: A Story of Making Peace With An Unexpected Life, has inspired and encouraged you today. And we’re excited to partner with Zondervan and giveaway 5 copies of Michele’s book! Just follow the instructions on the giveaway widget to be entered to win — we’ll choose 5 random winners on Friday (5/15) so be sure your email address is entered correctly! Giveaway open to US mailing addresses only. Good luck!

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A storyteller at heart, Michele Cushatt speaks nationwide with Women of Faith and Compassion International, and is cohost of the popular leadership podcast This Is Your Life With Michael Hyatt.

She has written for Today’s Christian Woman and MOPS International, and her first book, Undone: A Story of Making Peace With An Unexpected Life, released with Zondervan on March 10.

Michele and her husband, Troy, live in Denver, Colorado with their six children.

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