Grace

A cold, snowy night in Advent. I kneel at the altar, alone in the church warm with the breath of old wood and worn prayers. The pages of the book soften under my fingers. Behind me, the silent nave. Still, I speak the words aloud, as though the empty pews listen, as though grace leans in, hungry for a voice. And in the middle of the prayer, a stirring— a rustle, silk against silk, wings folding, unfolding, settling after long flight. I pause, the air behind me pregnant with more than incense. Then, slowly, I turn. And the hush holds me— not absence, but a fullness beyond measure, hosts without number. No faces to see. Only a deep, holy stillness that sings: "We are here. We have always been."