February 08, 2021



by Candace Chaney and Kayla Rupp

This story
began when He
thought up our lungs and sound waves and spoke them into existence, singing
the first melody of creation.
The Hallelujah chorus itself
is but a little ditty beside His creation song.
All our Michelin Stars fall
short of the taste of the wedding banquet
of the Lamb.
All our stories,
our Pulitzer Prize winning stories,
are mere shadows of this one.
He walked
on Earth, passing around kindness,
throwing it far and wide,
until it returned to him
like a boomerang to his big, kind heart.
He sat and listened (kindly)
to our stories,
telling all kinds
of stories of his own.
Stories that guided and healed us.
Healed me.
I would have been one
of his broken favorites. He would have eaten
with me
in first century Nazareth,
He would have sat around my fire, tapping his toes.

And yet he still comes
for dinner every night.
His busted up emissaries of grace
come in His place.
For me
to serve hot stew and stories.
To serenade,
As unto the Lord himself.