Intended for Spoken Word


Set up deep in the indigo sky, a bright three-quarter moon spilled light across the field beside my home. I stood looking upwards at the twinkling stars, shimmering high and far, far away from the complications of man or anything manmade.
My day is behind me and the night is ahead. Manhattan is 40 miles away. All the city light, streetlamps and stoplights are to my southeast. The sounds, the sights, the noise and congestion is far enough away that I can disconnect myself and regain a semblance of peace. Looking upwards, I consider the meaning of Heaven and my life as it is, here, on Earth below.

Standing beside a softly dim yellow light that beams down across my driveway, I look out at the mountains behind my home. The dark outlines of the mountaintops act like a line that run across a graph chart. Aside from the wind swooping through empty tree branches, which will soon begin to leaf again, the sound around me is quiet.

I find myself looking up at the stars; the moonbeams streaking across my property in a soft shade of bluish light. Then I exhale in thought. I sigh in the evaluation of God and man, or manmade gods, and I wonder about my presence of faith. All I have is around me. All I have lost is gone, and like yesterday, I find time is not refundable.

I am surrounded by tall trees and mountains. I am away from the interference of false friendship and empty promises—distancing myself from distraction as I stand alone, staring into night’s infinite span of galaxies, or better, staring into the eyes of God as I understand him, I find myself pleading with my own spirit or inner voice of which to create a better sense of consciousness.

I am reminded of the acronym for God.
G.O.D. (Good Orderly Direction)

Standing, wishing, and waiting for a sign, I posture myself like a son looking up to his Father with hopes to find an answer. I am fully grown, yet, I am a child and so infinitely small in comparison to the size of it all. Even our world as it compares to the universe is no bigger than an atom, which to us is so unthinkably small. So then it must be that I am also small regardless to the size of my appearance. And if I am small, then my problems in comparison to the weight of the world are even smaller
(No matter how big they may appear).

I stand beneath the sky to catch my breath and lose the taste in my mouth, which is nothing except a metaphor to describe that my day is complete and I have honored my commitments. I need to move on. I need to go forward, but the dust on my tongue tastes from construction and work. The dirt on my hands is thick and the weight on my mind is heavy.

I stare at the nighttime sky, the moon, and the stars above with hopes to see something or anything resembling a shooting star and act as a sign that proves, “God,” is listening.

 “Are you out there?”


Heading eastbound on a Short-line Bus into the rosy-red sunrise of a new morning, my hands are clean from the previous day. Ahead of me is New York City, which I can see from the distance. My head leans against the window and my eyes gaze outward. I stare at the city from my window seat and prepare for my day. I prepare foe a job that I have no passion for. In exchange for desire, I bring home a fair days pay for a fair days labor

I may not be over the crimes of yesterday. I may not be finished with my feelings or absolved from my sin. I may not be in a better emotional place or stable in the sense that pain is relieved and the strain is forgotten. I am only human, and perfectly imperfect; at least I have the wherewithal to understand the battles I face and the wrongs I need to right.

As I make my way to repeat the process of life on life’s terms, I find my legs know which way to go. I pass the same spots and walk by the same stores near Times Square. I weave through the crowds along 42nd Street, up to Vanderbilt, and enter through the rear entryway at Grand Central Station.
I walk through the doorways and head into the building. I walk down a ramp before turning right into the main ticketing area of Grand Central where I am hit, dead-on, by the beams of sunlight reaching in through the windows that face Lexington Avenue. The sunlight graces across the old tiles on the floor and across the top of the old clock in the center of the main vestibule

I may not appreciate the beauty of every moment—but I do see beauty in times like this as a reminder that there is grace in this world. There is beauty even when times are ugly.

There is a voice, which speaks to me without words. And I know that deep in my heart; there is love for me.


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