I sit in the pew,
sunlight stained through glass,
and wonder
why the voice inside me speaks in doubt
while the choir sings certainty.

The cross is heavy in the hands of belief,
but light in the arms of ritual.
I know the stories,
I've whispered them like prayers,
yet they slip through my fingers
like sand that doesn't recognize
the shape of my grasp.

God,if you are listening,
I am trying.
Trying to believe what I am told,
trying to feel what others claim is unshakable.
But the silence between your words
feels louder than your promises.

Still,I sit.
Still,I sing.
Still,I hope
that doubt is not the enemy of faith
but the soil where real faith
grows slowly,painfully,
honestly.