This is neither void nor vacuum. This is not a shack, though meager, run down by the ravages of discountenance. These are not the addled hands of a disconnected compos mentis. We are not anything other than surrendered, obedient and ambient. Do not bring gather your chain mail shirt hoping to crown a knight or impose allegiance to some perfect quest for there is One God and He alone shall I serve.

Do you see the ranger working alone in light of day? This is not the world of my eternal allegiance. These are not the hands to mend time, fill requisitions or master the arts of proper etiquette. Perfect embedded in the moments of reflection, change and opportunity. Fashion is a formality. Fudge is messy. And wiping hands upon ones shirt or pants always leaves a mark. What faith to yonder tree have I acquitted?

Faith found in connection, hope and trust, not in performance or cache of eloquence. Formation of time and space does not my residence recall. A man made for porch and love shall not find end or treatise in resolve of difficult dilemma, but in the knowledge that the problem is illusion or test. I am not a man to do but a thought to be promised. Who hails the masters of agape? Who finds solid ground in a world where loam is prince and peace is something you proclaim for attention?

A way. A day. A moment for those asking. An idea not unique but born of the Divine and welcomed as Truth in honorable existence. Walking the steps laid out for the dance I’ve yet to learn in music beyond the edges of universal understanding. There are no partners accepting those waiting for the light, the rhythm and the footfalls of God’s Pleasure. Into His pursuits have I pledged this waiting, not for accommodation nor for recompense but simply trust, knowing that whatever comes round the bend will be the best lived days of a man committed to reason and the right side of heaven.