Closer Than My Breath

Closer Than My Breath

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There’s something that humbles you when you realize the Creator knows your name. Not just the one the world calls out but the real one, the quiet truth of who you are underneath the noise. He knows that name. And what’s even more wild? He still walks with me, talks with me like we’re neighbors who catch up over the fence, like we’ve been tight for years. And maybe we have. Maybe I've just now started to notice how close He's always been.

I remember a moment clear as the sun breaking across the water me, Grandmother Celestine, and Grandfather Wallace, out near Grand Isle. We’d pile into Grandfather’s long, red Chevy van faded from time and sun, but steady, bold, and dependable, just like him. That van smelled like peppermint and old fishing gear, with a radio that only played certain stations, ones he liked to sing along to in a voice full of gravel and soul. I can still hear it sometimes him humming with the engine, tapping the wheel like a quiet drum.

The ride always felt longer than it probably was, but I never minded. Grandmother would pack something simple a jar of iced tea wrapped in foil, maybe a few sandwiches and we’d just be in that space together. Three souls and the slow-moving sky.

Once we got to the lake, the air had that still hush it gets early in the morning, just us and the ripples of the water. Grandfather had this way of casting his line without making a splash like he was whispering to the fish. And Grandmother, she didn’t just catch crabs she taught me to pay attention. She’d say, “Patience, baby. The water don’t rush for nobody, but it always brings what you need in time.”

At the time, I thought she was just talking about the crab traps. But years later, those words came back to me while I was sitting in the middle of some hard life storm confused, heart-weary, feeling like everything I’d been hoping for was drifting further away. And like a warm hand on my back, that memory surfaced. I realized she wasn’t just teaching me to fish or catch dinner. She was showing me how to wait, how to breathe deep and trust that what’s meant for you won’t miss you. That lesson was more than about water it was about faith. And now I see, the Creator was in that moment too, smiling quiet, holding all three of us together.

That’s how He is. He comforts me in ways I didn’t even recognize until later. He counsels me not just in churches or prayers, but in silence, in wind, in the smell of that red van, in laughter, and in the unspoken lessons passed from the old to the young. Sometimes I pour out everything my fears, doubts, bruised hopes and somehow, I walk away lighter, like something invisible caught it all.

It still amazes me… that the one who shaped galaxies would sit with me like this. That He doesn’t just know my name He knows my laugh, my tired sigh, the way I tap my foot when I’m thinking too hard. And despite it all, He calls me His own. Not as an idea. Not as a distant soul in a long line of folks. But me. Kateb. Just as I am. And I can’t explain it, but I feel it in the stillness. That’s how I know I’m not out here by myself.

So yeah, I trust Him with my life. Not because everything’s always been easy, but because He’s walked with me through fires and didn’t let them consume me. I’ve faced mountains that looked too tall to climb, battles that should’ve taken me out. But somehow… I kept walking. Not because I’m strong. But because He’s been holding my hand the whole way. Quiet, steady, unshaken.

It reminds me of how a mama knows her baby’s cry in a crowd sharp, clear, unmistakable. That’s how the Creator knows me. Even when I get lost in the noise, He knows exactly where I am. He never left me, never turned His face when I fell or wandered off. And when I finally turned back around, gasping and aching, He was right there… like He never moved. Like He was waiting.

I’ve learned something: when the world gets too loud and heavy, it’s in the hush the small, soul-deep hush that I remember. I belong to Someone who’s closer than my breath. And that’s more than enough for me.