He is.

I exist. I exist in the world of buttered toast, home-brewed coffee, blustery sundays, and flamenco music. I exist and take up space, I influence and am influenced by a universe of gravity and rainstorms and people; I exist and make noise, my breath rushing in and out of my body, my footsteps hitting concrete sidewalks.

First I was not, now i am, sung into being by the great I Am, sung into an earth of cinnamon and tamarinds and circuses. This birth is my greatest gift, because through this sudden burst of senses, I have tumbled into awareness that He exists.

He exists. The moment His earth-song began, He sparked a yearning for New Years celebrations with dragons and fireworks, for from the beginning we have felt the value of beginnings, and for funerals with long caravans of numb traffic, for from the beginning we have felt the wrongness of endings. He has written His holy law on our hearts. He has written of His beauty in the skies. He has touched our hands and faces by wearing hands and a face Himself. This is all we know of Him, this wild earth, this Great Story unfolding through the ages, this Great Conversation spoken through history, but it is enough that we can have no excuse. He exists. He is here. He is.

This is my heartbeat, Sylvia Plath, a heartbeat that joins the song of the ages. He is. He is. He is. 

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