08/03/2026
lately, when I need to pray
I go to the church that
has no doors
and where the walls are
made of carved granite
I sit under its moving roof
on a pew that smells
like fresh pine
and fold my hands quietly
until God joins me ~
here in this most ancient of churches,
I watch a dozen fat rainbow angels dressed
as trout dance in the baptismal font
and wonder out loud:
“when will I too,
be made anew?”
there is a special kind of holy quiet here
that rings much louder than any fat
church bell I have ever known
and the silence often rattles my ribs ~
it’s choir loft is high up in a birds nest
and it’s confessional is a breeze
that asks me to speak my sins
and I do, and then they are carried away ~
the longer I sing psalms in this church
the shorter my memory for all of
my past mistakes become
and that is when I hear
the Voice of Love speak
“oh tired light, oh wounded heart,
oh my child of crumbling grace,
come plant your feet in this Eden,
come rest in this sacred space
oh weary traveler, oh somber fire,
oh shaking heart that is prone to fear,
come lay in My ribboned water
come to fully know that I’m right here
oh wilting daisy, oh dying star
oh broken song that needs a name,
come sit with Me among the wild,
and then you’ll never be the same “
God and I take turns
saying all we need to say
to each other
I speak in short heavy jagged breaths
and the Divine replies in thin long pauses
this goes on until the sun begins to set ~
that’s when it’s time to leave
and even though I go home
I’m always still there
in the antiquated church
of trees and valleys
where foxes are lectors
where horizons are steeples
where clouds are vestibules
where campfires are incense
where time is a gospel
where the great flow is a sacrament
where forests are community
where a little piece of me always still remains talking to the voice
of whispering Love as I watch trout
become slain in the spirit
and I can’t stop marveling
at the altar of creation
~ john roedel
