(RNS) I used to think that the Divine was most easily found only in the holiest of places: convents, temples, monasteries and mosques. I neither understood, nor usually saw, the holy in the ordinary.

Recent experiences, however, have made me rethink my theology.

After a series of personal losses, I discovered that the Presence (with a capital “P”) of God could be found all over the place, including in the faces and hearts of compassionate people.

Too often, loss — including the death of a loved one — feels like a lonely experience, something no one before us has ever known. Ripped apart by emotion, exhausted and uncertain, we may almost shut down.

Well-meaning people tell us to “get out,” “get on with our lives,” and “have a little fun.” What they don’t realize or understand is that we have forgotten what fun is. We may even have forgotten (or be wondering) exactly who we are. Or who God is.

Then there are those who delight in sharing in what a friend of mine calls “pity parties.” They are eager to join forces with us as we mourn but they aren’t very helpful.

Some do mean well. They arrive on the scene with sympathetic words and smiles, nodding when we complain or worry. The trouble is that they tend to be so focused on the problem of loss that they’re ill prepared to help us uncover the way out of our from deep grief or serious disappointment.

Instead of wanting to feel sorry for myself, I have wanted to consider what was — and what may be. So I need to reminisce, recall where I was before the hurricane of loss hit, and envision the path I should take next.

Only true listeners without an agenda have been able to help me. They haven’t made me be cheerful, though many have helped me laugh. They haven’t insisted I weep in front of them since that is something I do best alone. They haven’t needed me to participate in a particular event or activity.

They have simply been with me.

They’ve turned up: in person, by telephone, in text messages, in letters and e-mails. And it is in them that I have sensed, and seen, the Divine.

For me, their presence has become God’s presence. I have heard the Divine call to healing through Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and nonbelievers. And because they were flesh-and-blood, tangible and real, I have listened. And I have begun to heal.

As I’ve walked falteringly forward, these are the people who have had faith in me, enough faith so that I have found new faith in myself. And I have started seeking the Divine all over again.

Oftentimes I find what I’m seeking not in what is, but in what is not. For centuries, contemplatives have sought something similar. Some theologians have called it the “via negativa.” We struggle and stretch and strain to know who God is, what the Divine is, and how to define God and explain God. And we stutter and stumble, falling back on inconclusive, indefinite phrases.

Our spiritual predecessors were on to something. Some followed a spiritual and prayer tradition that emphasized God’s relationship with creation and stressed the possibility of finding God through the created order. Sometimes this is called the “via positiva.”

But for me, right now, it’s the via negativa that I’m traveling, and it’s what has helped me. It emphasizes that words and visual images, even ideologies, are inadequate in describing all that God is, all that the Divine is.

And that — even though I don’t quite understand it all — makes a lot of sense to me.

(Cecile S. Holmes, long-time religion writer, is an associate professor of journalism at the University of South Carolina. Her most recent book is: “Four Women, Three Faiths.”)