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
God spoke in simple words.
Words of love, of belonging, of care and comfort
and this reality became our reality
We live in this imagination, in this image
of utter beauty
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
and we love.
As humans with a godly image in us
in our faces,
our innermost dreams and needs.
And we don’t, sometimes, too
in our actions
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
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.