In the beginning was the Word—

an exhalation of divine love, imagination, wholeness, grace.

It echoed over windswept deserts,

savannahs, ice fields, open waters,

encircled mountains

thundered through valleys

and made itself utterly at home in silence.

Still audible today in every

creak of a door opening in welcome, every

apology and acceptance, every

sip of water offered the least of these, every

voice that cries out for the fragility of our planet

for the refugee about to drown

the Trans youth disowned

the child bride, the trafficked, the addict,

the youth gunned down by racism.

The Word was written

and is legible still in the courses of rivers

the calligraphy of bare branches

the choreography of starlings

the scalloping on the sand

the scroll on the sea shell

the posture of the pacifist

the soles of the peace marchers

the signature on the truce

the architecture of the hive

the invitation to break bread

the exhortation to break down walls

the whirl of autumn leaves

the whorl on each finger as it reaches

to connect, to bear witness, to serve

and in the face of one aware of the indwelling Word,

who inhales mindfully to exhale