The recycling lorry grinds past. Children head to work and school. Then stillness returns. After prayer, I step outside. The dawn leans in, dew on grass, a robin’s sermon, breath rising like incense. Creator of heaven and earth, the words arrive not as theory but as touch, taste, trembling: light through leaf, the smell of damp soil, the world alive with God. Once I thought creation a thing, a stage, a backdrop for redemption’s play. Now I see communion, each creature a sylla

A siren fades in the distance. Tea cools by the windowsill. I reach the next line— I believe in God, the Father Almighty. The words familiar, but this morning they hesitate on my tongue. Almighty. A word I’ve prayed, sung, preached— a word that once thundered, now trembles. If God is almighty, why the tears that never end? Why the rooms where violence breathes? Why the long ache of unanswered prayer? I’ve repeated these words a million times, as though power were the point— a

Morning prayer. The chapel hush before the day begins. Candle flickers, breath misting in the half-light. The words come again— I believe. I stop. How many times have I said them? How many times have I meant them? Some mornings they rise like birds, other mornings they drop like stones. I believe— help my unbelief. Not as one who understands, but as one who clings. Belief now is not a certificate of certainty, but a slow turning of the heart, a leaning toward mercy, a yes tha

Before there was sound, there was Word. Before there was time, there was Love— vast, uncontainable, breathing galaxies into being. And Love became flesh, so that flesh might become love. The Eternal bent low, clothed in the smallness of a child, laid where creatures feed. The One who shaped the stars rests now in a trough of straw. The Source of all sustenance becomes the food of the world. The Unbounded becomes breakable, so the frail may taste divine life. In Bethlehem— the