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


and louder