• Renée

Where Stories Get Started

The Great Storyteller

Leans low

And whispers tenderly to the earth.

There’s mystery on the tassels of His words.

Your story.

My story.

Ensconced in holy writ.

At His exhale, they awaken.

Less a gentle rousing,

Much more a throbbing burst,

Our stories fill their lungs and stretch their limbs,

Latent with promise,

And a script for searching out.

For only seekers can live story,

Aided by lit lamps,

On quest for purest light.

Sleepers doze in

First page folds,

Or lumber into

Plainer narratives,

Because they daren’t believe

What the Great Storyteller knows.

And the Place of Unlived Story?

‘Tis dark.


Light bearing grace

Can fall through wounds

Like open windows

And render sight to blindness,

Even life to death.

The Great Storyteller,

He never forgets.

So for those

Who’ll linger long

In mercy’s wake,

The ones who speak to mountains

And break ground,

They raise their sails to turning pages,

Opening wide their story

To the inky strokes

Of He who wrote the sky.

And their story breathes on.