It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave. It is hard to desecrate a grave and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it; we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree. Dd the wind use to cry, and the hills shout forth praise? Now speech has perished from among the lifeless things of earth, and living things say very little to very few.
……and whenever there is stillness there is a still small voice, God’s speaking from the whirlwind, nature’s old song and dance, the show we drove from town.