Soul Place Home

Where I grew up, there was grass

as tall as our little heads

as green as the frogs in it

in the summertime.

From the kitchen window, my mother

she wore a light layer of lipstick

could see our little heads

those of my sisters and my friends

and of those who I didn’t know which one they were.

We played, we laughed, we sipped lots of fresh lemonade.

In the wintertime, we carefully followed the tiny birds’ traces through the snow,

saw where their little wings lifted them towards the sky.

Inside, by the fireplace, we drank hot chocolate and tea, baked and ate biscuits

cuddled with blankets and pillows and each other.

In the spring, we cut our little legs open by crawling through the moss  to see the shy little shoots grow.

In autumn, we collected colorful leaves, learned the names of their tree homes, and dried and pressed them.

We ran through the rain

with red noses

and wet feet

and much laughter.

Many summers went by, and so did many winters.

Many birds flew south and then returned.

Many clouds painted images on the canvas above us.

And so we grew

taller than the grass.

In this place in which the grass whispers stories

just as the big trees

and all the flowers,

and the fairies just above the fresh earth,

my soul told its first stories, too.

In simple words and taking natural experiences, it told stories of peace, happiness, trust,  utter delight to be alive.

They were imagined, fantastic stories of pure emotion, stories of a world in which imagination is the only reality.

When God told his first story,

it was one of coming home.

Where was God before? Isn’t the universe just too dark for One to be all by Oneself?

So God imagined light




our home.

God spoke in simple words.

Words of love, of belonging, of care and comfort

and this reality became our reality

mankind’s home.

We live in this imagination, in this image

of utter beauty

and chance

every day

in every way.

For God so loved the world

– His world that He had made just so big and beautiful and wondrous –

with His imagination

that He filled it with the spirit of Himself, which became man’s soul.

So He could hear an answer

instead of only His own echo.

So He could hear stories, too.

So that the stories could always continue

even though they never change.

So we live

as humans

and we love.

As humans with a godly image in us

in our faces,

our gestures,

our innermost dreams and needs.

And we don’t, sometimes, too

in our actions

our deeds

our innermost fears and doubts.

But when we return to the soul paradise place

where we first started walking and talking

and from where our mother is always watching where we trod

we reconnect with Him, whom we are telling our very own story

every day

and in every way.

And after we’ve finished, we move to new soul places

to see what our imagination finds

where other people are different

live and love differently.

I pray we might find peace

and make the wondrous mosaic a little more complete

for our generation that is

because the colors will momentarily fade with each dying man

and then immediately become more intensive again with each newborn

just like spring comes after winter

and that we might tell our stories a little more clearly, honestly, confidently

to each other

with each other

so God doesn’t have to be lonely.