Tasting the Nectar of the Creator

Tasting the Nectar of the Creator

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

You ever just stand in front of a flower and get completely caught up in its beauty? I mean, really stop and look at it the way the petals stretch like soft hands toward the sun, how the colors seem to hum, how something so delicate can hold that much strength. You admire it from the outside, maybe even lean in to breathe in its fragrance, and you think, Wow, this is something else. But that’s just scratching the surface. The real magic? It's tucked deep inside, in the nectar. That sweet, quiet treasure at the center the part you can’t see unless you go looking, and you can’t taste unless you dare to get close and take it in. That nectar it’s the essence. The soul. And that’s exactly how faith works.

I’ve learned over time that you can’t really grasp the depth of the Creator by standing at a distance, nodding respectfully at the sky like you're tipping your hat at a stranger. Admiring is nice, even comforting, but it’s not the same as knowing. It’s like appreciating music without ever dancing to it. You see the signs the sunrise that feels like it was painted just for you, the way certain people show up right when you need them, the unexpected stillness in the middle of your chaos. That’s the beauty of the Creator peeking through. And then there’s the aroma the moments when something deeper stirs inside you, when the wind carries more than just air, when the silence feels like it’s whispering ancient truths. That’s the scent of something sacred. But still, none of that tells you what it actually tastes like to carry that Spirit inside of you.

You’ve got to take it in, swallow it whole, let it run through your soul like a warm drink on a cold night. Because the real experience of the Creator doesn’t come from watching or admiring it comes from letting that truth soak into your bones. You’ve got to live it, not just tiptoe around it. Just like you can’t get full off the smell of dinner, your spirit won’t be satisfied by spiritual window-shopping. You’ve got to eat. You’ve got to drink. You’ve got to get fed from the inside out.

I remember once, a long time ago, sitting alone on the steps outside my grandmother’s house. The sky was that heavy shade of twilight that makes you feel like something big is about to happen, even if nothing does. I had a lot on my mind. Worries, questions, things I couldn’t put into words. I was staring at a patch of wildflowers by the fence tiny things, barely hanging on. But they were still reaching for the light. Something in me cracked open. And I heard it not with my ears, but from somewhere deep down. It said, “You’re not here just to look. You’re here to become.” That moment? That was me sipping the nectar. It didn’t solve everything, but it changed everything.

People ask why some folks fall off the spiritual path or lose their fire. And honestly? It’s because they stop at the surface. They settle for pretty pictures and poetic words. They like the idea of the Creator but aren’t ready to sit at the table and eat. Some get caught up in the vibes goosebumps, a moving song, the feel-good parts and when things get heavy, they’re out. But those who’ve tasted that real, internal sweetness? The ones who’ve made space for the Creator to live inside them? You can’t shake them. Life can throw bricks, storms, shadows and they’ll still stand. Not because they’re made of steel, but because something holy is flowing through them.

Now, let me tell you a little story—one of those ones that slips into your mind and stays a while. Three people showed up at this garden, each drawn by something they couldn’t quite name. The first one stepped in, glanced around, saw the beauty and said, “That’s enough for me.” They turned around and left, satisfied by what they saw. The second one walked in a bit deeper, took a big whiff of the flowers, smiled with a full heart and said, “This smells like the divine.” Then they, too, walked away. But the third one? They stayed. They got down in the dirt. Touched the stems, studied the soil, let the fragrance linger, and finally tasted the nectar. And when they did, it was like something ancient and alive woke up inside of them. They didn’t just visit the garden. They became part of it. That's the kind of faith I’m talking about. Not borrowed. Not admired. Lived.

See, when you really let the Creator in—when you let compassion be your compass, when you sit quietly with grace until it becomes your instinct, when you move through the world led by a sacred rhythm you don’t just believe. You know. And that kind of knowing? It can’t be taught or talked into existence. It’s something you taste. Something you live. Something you become.

And so I’ll keep sipping from that divine well. I’ll keep letting that sacred sweetness run through me like a river through a canyon. Not always perfect. Not always steady. But real. Deep. Ongoing. Some days, I might only get a drop. Other days, I’m drenched in it. Either way, I’m still showing up with my cup in hand, heart wide open.

Here’s something from my spirit to yours:

Psalm: Whisper of the Nectar

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

O Great Creator, I’ve seen Your wonder in moonlight and morning dew.

I’ve caught glimpses of You in the silence between thunderclaps,

in the laughter of children, in the hands of the hurting.

But I want more than glimpses I want closeness.

Draw me in, past the petals, beneath the perfume,

into the center where sweetness lives.

I don’t want to just admire You from afar.

I want to carry You in my breath,

in my choices,

in my everyday mess.

Let Your nectar be the fire in my chest,

the whisper in my walk,

the rhythm in my rest.

And when the world goes dry,

when all I’ve got left is dust and doubt,

remind me that You’re still the river.

That even a single drop of You

is enough to bloom something inside me.

So here I am, cup lifted.

Thirsty and grateful.

Still sipping.

Still seeking.

Still becoming.

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