Smoke And Scripture

I grew up with God like a hallway light

always on, always watching,

and somehow still

not warming anything.

﹁﹂

They taught me perfection in Sunday clothes,

pressed and smiling,

Sin counted like pennies

in a sweaty palm.

﹁﹂

So I learned to fear my own thoughts,

to swallow questions whole,

to call shame “conviction”

because it sounded holier.

﹁﹂

Now my faith looks different.

It looks like a candle on the counter

next to unpaid bills,

next to my meds,

Next to a dish I forgot to wash.

﹁﹂

Sometimes I pray with smoke in my lungs

burnt toast, incense,

the small honest mess of living

And I don’t ask to be spotless anymore.

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I open old pages

and the words don’t always land,

But sometimes one line

finds me like a hand on my shoulder.

﹁﹂

I’m rebuilding slow.

Not a cathedral,

just a shelter.

﹁﹂

A place where my grief is allowed,

where my body isn’t an enemy,

where love doesn’t require performance.

﹁﹂

If God is here,

Maybe He isn’t demanding.

Maybe He’s patient.

Maybe that’s the miracle I missed.