I do not have great faith.
I only have pieces
that fit without
my knowing how or why,
a profound continuum
that I would be lying
if I claimed
I fully understood.
I will not preach
of miracles,
of moving mountains or
parting seas;
I can only testify
about what I’ve seen:
I’ve seen dawns
rectify the errors of
the nights they followed.
I’ve heard words spoken
with neither grand gesture
nor deliberate weight
but had been received
like sacred seeds
and through time prospered
as wisdom’s indomitable trees.
I’ve witnessed intentions
cast into wayward winds
and return home,
pulling opportunity
behind them like
precious bundles.
I cannot purport
to be one chosen,
or be privy to the answers
to some great mystery.
But I possess
too many good things
not to feel grateful.
I am anything but righteous.
No one can look at my life
and say my steps
consciously aimed to be
guided by some holy spirit.
I’ve spun so many excuses
to justify not believing,
except maybe in a dark chaos
that overtakes and overwhelms.
But somehow I’d make
opportune decisions
at fateful moments and
catch the shaft of light
for one more day.
Somehow that rectifying dawn
just keeps arriving,
grace keeps falling like
rain on my sown words and
all my prodigal intentions
keep remembering
their way back home.
I do not have great faith.
But I ask my questions
sincerely,
and I’ve never been forsaken.
Rampant & Golden 
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