There is a circle of people, all spokes of a wheel stretching out—forever—into the world of creation.
Each person’s story, unique, but they have an oddly familiar refrain
and I recognize some of the characters because they weave in and out of my life.
The people here, the colors of the rainbow—black, white, hispanic, asian—held together by pizza and stories.
and the Spirit is thick.
And I’m not sure what God wants from me
because their theology is wrong sometimes and their experiences are not mine
but I get the impression that it doesn’t really matter.
because, if Truth is a person
and that person is Jesus
then I expect we all see him just a little bit differently.
Maybe Jesus is the word of God—Grace made flesh once, long ago—and day by day enfleshed in each of us because we share the Spirit.
And everyone actually exists:
breathing, laughing, crying, making sense of the senseless
and somehow this is news to me
but, of course, the stories continue because the world doesn’t need me to spin.
And so the inevitable happens. And I speak—mixing my story with theirs.
and somehow all roads run into one
and as we walk, a low hallelujah begins to build.
and gets louder