God And Oatmeal
Into the north,
where silence weighs heavier than prayer
and mountains carve their spires
into a sky unbroken,
a man went seeking God.
Snowfields stretched like scripture,
rivers carried hymns in their frozen throats,
and the aurora spilled green fire across the dark—
a gospel burning above him.
He longed for thunder,
for revelation,
for heaven to unseal its mouth.
Instead, there was hunger.
A small fire coaxed to life,
a dented pot trembling over its glow,
oats softening in water
as if even they believed.
He ate slowly,
steam rising like incense,
warmth pressing through his ribs
until it felt like prayer.
Perhaps God is not the storm,
he thought,
but the mercy of oatmeal,
the quiet provision
that lets the soul continue searching.
And then—
nothing.
He vanished into that silence.
No path traced back,
no witness to his leaving.
Only the mountains remained,
their gaze steady as ever,
holding his absence like scripture
unfinished.
And perhaps that is where he stays—
folded into the wild,
into the hymn of falling snow,
into the stillness where God and oatmeal
are one and the same.
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