Waiting to hear God’s voice over the noise
meant waiting for the noise to become beautiful.
Beautiful like doubt wrapped in doing.
Like resistance cloaked in peace.
Like tears caught by a friend’s strong shoulders,
or realizing that your own shoulders will have to be enough.
Beautiful strength in the deafening lonely,
with only the soul in attendance.
Only the soul to applaud you
in an ovation of one.
Standing in recognition of your work,
at the edge of life’s long stage.