Walk with the Paradoxical Pastoralist—where Laudato si', honest questions, and Lectio Divina meet.
I stood where I thought
all promise had ceased,
where silence had settled
and hope had decreased.
But light broke the pattern
I thought I had known—
and joy stood before me
too vast to be owned.
So I laughed at my limits,
let certainty bend—
for grace had begun
where I thought it would end.
I walked with the truth
yet saw only the road,
heard words of fire
yet felt them not glow.
Till grace, like the sun,
rested soft on my sight—
and the closed place within
gave way to the light.
For hearts do not open
by effort alone—
but by love that persists
till it is known.
I reached for the life
I once understood,
to hold what was broken
and call it still good.
I stumbled on sweetness
I could not contain,
a bloom in the quiet,
a joy without name.
I thought to be silent—
to study, to plan—
but truth has a rhythm
no silence can stand.
So I turned from the flower
and danced my small part—
to announce what I found
in the fields of the heart.
I ran for the dawn,
to be first in the light,
to outrun the shadows
that lingered from night.
But truth does not yield
to the swift or the fast—
it waits in the stillness
that follows the past.
So I stepped into wonder,
no longer to prove—
and found that the first
was the moment I moved.
This quiet Saturday,
no trumpet, no flame—
just silence that whispers
He knows every name.
I reached for the past,
for the day I held dear—
but grace met my longing
and drew me from fear.
For love is not kept
by refusing to part—
but by trusting its place
in a far deeper heart.
I woke to the weight
I did not invite,
a cross in the blur
of a restless night.
I wished it away,
or softened its claim—
but there it remained,
unchanged by my shame.
So I lifted it slightly—
not strong, but aware:
that Christ had already
been carrying it there.
I looked to the sky
for something to mend
a world that seemed
to fracture and bend.
But grace took a towel,
and knelt on the floor—
and showed me a way
I’d not seen before.
For healing is not
in the heights above—
but in hands made low
by the labor of love.
I said, “Surely not—
this cannot be me,”
with a voice full of calm
and false certainty.
But truth does not shout—
it quietly stays,
waiting to surface
beneath my sure ways.
So I trade in my certainty,
costly though it be—
for the question that saves:
“Lord… is it me?”
A fragment of bread,
a moment misplaced—
a change in the rhythm
I thought I had traced.
I took it with tension,
with quiet unrest—
and felt something darker
stir in my chest.
But grace slipped beside it,
unseen, unforeseen—
another small gift
where mercy had been.
For night falls not swiftly,
but piece by small piece—
and so does the dawn
when I choose to receive peace.