Would I be one who doubts like Thomas?
These limitations are what I owe
The world for my unique existence.
I mend my ways, darn the thoughts together,
String of work and fabric of toil.
They fall apart and I fix them again;
Maybe I need this pill, or that therapy.
But do I believe and receive holy fire?
My brain scrambles for that winning phrase,
The correct words to utter with conviction.
I yearn for that connection with faith,
But my eyes are shuttered and limbs useless.
Better to remain in the cupboard, hiding
Then to remove doubt and become vulnerable.
But there’s that sand grain of faith still,
Irritating the oyster to produce a pearl.
I must gather my mutterings and cast them aside
Walking into the mysterious night
Shutting the door and wait for belief
To be manifest in the hearts of the willing.
© 2017 Valerie Hathaway