Before sunrise, Jesus stood alone in the Vatican Gardens with His head bowed and His hands open at His sides. The city was still quiet then. The paths were empty. The trimmed hedges held the last coolness of the night. The dome of Saint Peter’s rose beyond the trees
Before the first ferries and before the city fully remembered its own noise, Jesus was alone in quiet prayer near the harbor, where the dark water moved under the last weight of night and the wind coming off Boston Harbor carried that clean cold that could wake a person all
There is a strange kind of pain that comes from hearing people talk about God like He is someone they know while you sit there wondering what on earth they are talking about. They speak with warmth. They speak with certainty. They speak as if God is not just real,
Before the sun cleared the dark line of the ridges, Jesus was alone in quiet prayer above Moraine Park, where the meadow still held the night and the wind moved low through the grass like something trying not to wake the earth too fast. He had gone there while the
Before the first tourist stepped onto Elkhorn Avenue, before the windows downtown caught even a stripe of blue light, Jesus was alone in quiet prayer above the town. The air held that high-country cold that wakes a person all the way up, and the dark shape of the Stanley Hotel
There is a strange kind of pain that does not announce itself with drama. It does not always arrive with a tragedy, a collapse, or a moment everyone around you can point to and name. Sometimes it comes in quieter clothes. It comes after another normal day. It comes when
Before the first train doors sighed open and before the city started putting on its daytime face, Jesus stood near the water at Confluence Park with His head bowed and His hands loose at His sides. The river moved past Him with that cold, steady sound that never asked anyone’
Before the sun came up, before the traffic thickened and the city started performing competence again, Jesus knelt in the damp silence near Volunteer Park Conservatory and prayed in the gray-blue dark. The grass held the cold of the night. The glass of the conservatory caught what little light there
There is a kind of pain that does not begin with rebellion. It begins with effort. It begins with a person who has been trying to hold their life together with both hands. It begins with somebody who keeps showing up, keeps praying, keeps trying to make the better choice,
Before the city had fully woken up, while the sky over Portland still looked cold and undecided, Jesus knelt alone in the damp grass at Cathedral Park beneath the St. Johns Bridge. The bridge rose above Him like a dark red frame holding up the morning, and the river moved
Before the city had fully opened its eyes, Jesus was already in prayer. The light over Capitol Park had not yet become morning so much as a soft gray promise of it. The long paths under the trees still held the hush that comes before traffic takes over and before
There is a strange loneliness that settles over a person when they have already done the thing they were told would help, and the help still does not seem to have arrived. You prayed. You meant it. You were not playing games. You were not trying to sound impressive. You