It's Still Life

22 of 27 · Liturgy for the Unseen Sky

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I. The Unseen

We knew the sky existed
not because we saw its blue,
its vastness,
its sea of stars —
but because we heard the storm.

We felt its breath upon our faces,
cold and electric.
We heard its voice
in the groan of the pines,
the shudder of the shutters,
the long, low rumble
that travelled through the earth
and into the bones of our feet.

The sky was a truth preached by wind,
a cathedral built of sound and pressure.
We believed in it with our whole bodies,
long before we ever thought to look up.

II. The Creed of the Felt

Blessed are those who trust the echo,
for they shall know the shape of the cliff.

Blessed are those who feel the rain,
for they shall map the clouds from below.

For the sky is not only a thing of light,
but a thing of presence —
a weight upon the skin,
a change in the air,
a promise of violence or peace
whispered against the ear.

Holiness is not always a vision;
sometimes, it is a vibration.

III. The Hymn of the Hidden

Glory to the unseen,
the heard,
the felt.

Glory to the storm
that proves the sky.

For what is faith,
if not the turning of a face toward the wind,
the closing of eyes to better hear the thunder,
the unwavering belief in a heaven
that announces itself
not in light,
but in the language of the shaken world?

IV. The Revelation

And then — one night,
the storm passed.

The clouds tore like a veil.
And there it was:
the sky.

Not as we had imagined,
but vaster, deeper,
more silent and terrible
in its brilliance.

We had known its voice,
but we had never dreamed its face.

And we understood:
we had been faithful to a fragment.
The truth was infinitely more beautiful.

V. The Knowing

Go now,
and do not fear the dark.

For even when the sky is hidden,
it is there.

Listen for its thunder.
Feel its breath upon your skin.
Trust the storm
that proves the vastness.

And know
that one night,
the clouds will part,
and you will finally see the thing
you have always believed in.