In the humdrum pulse of the everyday,
divinity shimmers like sunlit dust
motes, easily missed.
We’re not castaways
on a barren island of the soul,
bereft of sacred encounters.
Christ, the incarnate whisper of love,
seeks solace not in grand pronouncements,
but in the quiet seams of our ordinary lives.
Listen, for his voice threads through the city’s clamor,
a melody woven into the laughter of children,
the gaze of the street sweeper,
the sigh of the exhausted office worker.
His hands reach out,
not from stained glass windows,
but through the rough palms of construction workers,
the calloused fingers of mothers,
the gentle touch of strangers
offering a cup of tea.
He walks among us,
not in robes and sandals,
but in the worn boots of soldiers
and the frayed sneakers of wanderers,
seeking haven in the hearts
of anyone open to his embrace.
Recognizing his grace isn’t a spotlight spectacle;
it’s a slow dance with the invisible,
a silent hymn sung in acts of kindness.
No neon signs mark the holy ground,
no choirs announce his arrival.
It’s the quiet gestures,
woven like threads into
the fabric of our days –
a smile to the lonely cashier,
a helping hand to the burdened neighbor,
a moment of patience with the impatient.
These are the frankincense and
myrrh of our modern-day journeys,
offerings rising from the mundane,
whispers carried on
the wind of compassion.
We, too, are the shepherds,
hearts quickening, not to a manger,
but to the silent cries echoing
in every crowded street,
every empty eye.
Wise men bearing gifts in paper bags,
spreading kindness like confetti,
filling cracks in broken lives.
We’re not late for this cosmic invitation;
we’re right on time,
each encounter a chance to
see and serve the divine flickering
within every soul we touch.
It’s in these tender
moments of service,
in the quiet acts of love,
that we find ourselves woven
into the fabric of boundless grace,
an array shimmering with
the light of the ordinary,
extraordinary divine.
