[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

— The Shepherd Within

The Lord is my shepherd.

I am not alone.

When the road becomes
too long,

when my hands grow tired
of carrying
what tomorrow may bring,

God leads me
toward stillness.

Not toward
a life without trouble,

but toward
a quiet place
where my soul
can breathe again.

Green fields
open before me.

Still waters
receive the sky.

And for a moment,
I remember—

I do not have
to run.

My soul is restored
not by possessing more,

but by becoming still
enough
to receive.

God leads me
along paths
I cannot always understand,

paths of righteousness,

paths where
my feet learn again
how to walk
with trust.

Sometimes
the path enters
the valley.

The valley
of shadow.

The valley
where familiar voices
become distant,

where night
comes early,

where I cannot see
the road ahead.

Yet I will not fear.

For You are with me.

Not somewhere
beyond the darkness,

but here—

beside me,

within me,

your presence
walking
at the pace
of my trembling heart.

Your rod
and your staff—

not weapons
of domination,

but signs
that I am not
forgotten,

that when I stumble,
You remain near,

that when I wander,
You call me home.

Then,
in the presence
of everything
that has frightened me,

You prepare
a table.

Not a fortress.

A table.

Bread
where there was hunger.

Wine
where there was sorrow.

A place
where enemies
can no longer
define the boundaries
of my heart.

You anoint my head
with oil.

You remind me
that my life
is more than
its wounds,

more than
its failures,

more than
the years
that have passed.

My cup overflows.

Not because
I possess everything,

but because
I have learned
to receive
what is enough.

Surely goodness
and mercy
will follow me—

not because
I have earned them,

but because
they belong
to the nature
of God.

They will follow me
through morning
and evening,

through youth
and old age,

through laughter
and tears,

through every
departure
and return.

And I will dwell
in the house
of the Lord

not only
at the end
of my journey,

but here,

now,

in every breath
that opens
toward love,

in every stranger
I welcome,

in every hand
I extend,

in every moment
when fear
loosens its grip
and grace
becomes possible.

The Shepherd
has never
left the road.

The Shepherd
walks with me.

Through green fields.

Through still waters.

Through the valley.

Through the table.

Through the long
and beautiful
mystery of life.

And when my journey
finally becomes
a whisper,

I will not be afraid.

For the One
who walked
beside me

will still be there—

leading me home,

not into darkness,

but into

the house
where love
has no ending.

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

– “This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God — as a tenelach, walking where the Word breathes.”

In the beginning,

before clocks, before breath, before the first trembling thought, there was only God— a vast, listening presence holding the silence like a cupped hand.

And into that silence God whispered: Begin.

Light rose like a shy visitor entering a dark room. It did not shout. It simply appeared— soft, obedient, as if it had been waiting for centuries to be called by name.

God saw the light and smiled, for even the smallest brightness is enough to start a world.

Then God separated the quiet waters— lifting one into the sky, letting the other rest upon the earth. A gentle dividing, not a violent tearing. Creation, even then, was an act of tenderness.

And God whispered again: Begin.

The land rose from the deep, slowly, like an old man standing from prayer. Mountains stretched, valleys bowed, rivers found their paths as if guided by an unseen hand.

Trees appeared— first as thoughts, then as seeds, then as green breath reaching upward. Grass unfolded like a soft hymn. Flowers opened like small prayers.

And God saw that the world was learning to breathe.

Then came the lights— the great lantern of day, the gentle lamp of night, and the scattered sparks that keep lonely travelers company. God placed them with the care of a craftsman tightening two stubborn screws, making sure the sky would hold.

And God whispered: Begin.

The waters stirred with living things— silver flashes, quiet swimmers, creatures who knew how to praise God without words.

The air filled with wings— some beating wildly, some gliding like prayers carried on wind.

And God saw that movement was a kind of worship.

Then the earth brought forth animals— gentle ones, fierce ones, small ones who hide in the grass, and great ones who walk like mountains.

And finally— in the cool of the day— God shaped a human being from the dust and from His own breath. A creature of earth and eternity. A worker. A maker. A soul capable of love, regret, gratitude, and wonder.

A tenelach— a friend of God.

And God said: Begin.

Not once, but every morning. Every breath. Every trembling attempt to repair something broken. Every poem written in the quiet hours. Every act of kindness offered without applause.

Creation was not finished in seven days. It is still happening— in gardens, in workshops, in kitchens, in hearts that rise again after saying, “I cannot,” and then, after one long breath, “Perhaps I can.”

This is Genesis in the language of my soul: God begins the world, and then invites us to continue it.

To repair. To plant. To write. To love. To become.

This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God— as a tenelach, a quiet companion walking beside the Eternal with aging hands and an open heart.

• Tenelach (Irish) — a state of deep and mysterious communion with wind, water, trees, and the whole earth, in which a person can truly hear the song of the land. [Literal meaning] “A profound spiritual connection with nature.”