There is a trembling beneath all things,
a quiet undoing woven into the
fabric of being.
The earth shifts,
waters rise,
and I too am unmoored,
perplexed,
adrift in the
vastness of it all.
The churches speak of refuge,
of strength,
of a presence that does not waver—
yet where is it now,
when the ground beneath dissolves into uncertainty?
I hear whispers of a river,
both hidden and holy,
its currents untouched by the
chaos of the world.
Is it real,
or only a longing and yearning
that shapes itself into hope?
Time bends,
folding into itself,
At times it stops.
Night stretches long,
I lie awake
and I wait,
searching for the light,
the dawn that does not come.
Where is the silence that unmakes fear?
Where is the stillness that holds all things?
The world burns,
and the weight of its ruin
presses heavy on my chest.
And yet—
A whisper moves within the wreckage,
not loud,
not certain,
but present.
Be still.
Is this the invitation?
To stand within the mystery,
to yield to the unknowing,
to let the ache speak its own name?
Draw close.
I am here,
and perhaps that is enough.

-Rev'd Jon Swales, 2025
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