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I. the hands of god are unceasing.


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I. the hands of god are unceasing.



"Untitled" - Barry Lyndon


the hands of god are unceasing in their movement, ever creating, ever spinning threads upon threads of divine providence


"I am the Lord GOD without peer. I created the earth, the seas, and the heavens. And I breathed life into the beasts of the earth and the men who rule them. And as I am eternal, you are transient, and there is no eternity without Me."

Scroll of Virtue, Canticle of Humility (7) : Lines 3-5


“My Lord,” the words are hushed, uttered from a mouth that barely parts to form the syllables. There is a cross, nailed to a wall, angles sharp and unforgiving. The sweat of effort the anoints their forehead, and the cool air is a baptism to their bared flesh.


 “Oh, Holy Creator, I beg of you-” they fall to their knees at the cross. “-give me a sign.”


The air is silent, and unmoving. They can feel it, feel their single presence in the room. The only thing they hear is their own breathing, and the steady thrum of their heart. They wait, for anything at all, anything


“Is it selfish? To ask such a thing? You are everywhere, and yet, I never hear from you. I see you in the eyes of the congregation as we sing hymns to your prophets, I see you in the changing leaves of trees and the sunlight shining through rose-stained glass.” 


They say, eyes fixed on the cross, staring at it, staring into it. 


“I talk to you, sometimes, you know? Of course, you know. I say a prayer, ask for the morning to be full of virtue, if not bright- perhaps I talk to a well-meaning member of the clergy, or watch the sunrise from the windows of the church as I wake, and begin my morning. And when you don’t respond, when I feel nothing, when the sun is hidden behind the clouds, and the cobblestone is slick with rain, I say, ‘that’s okay. He must be busy.’ A Creator wouldn’t recognize individuals in those they mold, only their own marks upon the clay they carve. And so, I wish you well, my heart reaching out to your efforts, your unmoving kindness.”


A pause.


“But I must ask, Lord. My Father, my Devotion-”

Their eyes water with unushered tears, and they gaze down upon the hardwood floor that digs into their knees and splinters their robes.
“Will you ever speak to me? Will you ever, ever, give me a sign? I wonder, would you tell me you are here-- that you won’t leave me-- that you see me too? Would you ever acknowledge my unwavering love for you?”


The room is silent. The air is stale. There is not a sign of any change, no hint of acknowledgment.


And a chair gets pushed into the wall in the other room with a bang, from someone standing up too fast. The cross moves at the vibration from the wall, hanging lopsided.

 They sigh, and stand, knees aching from the held position, and they raise their hands to gently correct it, fingers lingering on its form before pulling away.


“That’s okay. You must be busy.”



One post of multiple.

Kindred souls, feel free to reach out-- if your curiosity implores you.


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Father Leofric sat alone in the dark. Alone in thought and concept. He was hunched over documents as his back was lit by a flame in the corner. He looked through a collection of books - the Scrolls, mayhaps - and then his pen wrote. 


We are untouched by the Divine, so that we might find our path in unison with the plans of God.


He did not know of Father Silas, nor of his thoughts, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew: the fathers were not entirely alone in thought.

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