I suppose I have many conceptions of God. But the one I always return to and the one I always remember and not the one I always want is the Christian God, that primal force. The God of every orator and storyteller, who spoke prose and wrote words with such a wind and a furry and silent passion that stars spun out of it into their neatly elliptical orbits, and galaxies in their ever lengthening tangents, and the words are so strong that they keep on growing and growing, conquering the unstoried nothingness that lies beyond the fringes of our universe moving into that nothing for all and since all eternity. That spoke the words that are me and the phrase that is us together, expecting, but perhaps not regretting, the power of the words that we are and how that one syllable rendered it impossible for us to stay fixed on the page and how we would wander and contort and jumble ourselves and every sentence up, spoiling the fine story of the chemistry and physics and the quiet universe. But He wrote us just the same for love of the sound we made and the way it rolled off His tongue and quivered through the pen that first created light, that in a few rapid movements spun a web of living color. And when, we had jumbled ourselves and mixed up our verbs and nouns, and misplaced all the adjectives and adverbs so that even the words that were still spelled as they ought be no longer made sense and the whole story no longer made sense and this written masterpiece seemed about to tear itself because of the very power of the words in it, when no one knew the plot or could follow a sentence to its final punctuation and even the language of the book was in question He wrote a new word. The word that was His own the Word that was Him, that was Christ. And the Word made never a sound but played the chords of every other. It struck the page like lightning without a sound and drifted through like an autumn leaf with the ocean’s roar. The Word that could not be spoken for its very sound was a negation. The contradiction and paradox through which all could be understood: like a question that once the answer is known is forgotten. And in that flash that was the Christ in that momentary illumination, the story changed, silent and doomed no more, clamoring and lost never again, suddenly within grasp of coherence. In that confused jumble of lives, loves and words continuity would be found. The words that were me slowly became less jumbled, and my place among the sentences of the universe became so slightly clearer. And the words though still jumbled and the sentences still somewhat empty, began to slowly work themselves together toward that point, in pages not yet read or heard of by our own ears, where the themes the Author writ from the beginning again sound clear, and the words that we are suddenly can sing.