Meditation

I came to God with questions in my hand.
As if the truth would bend to my demand.
I walked a quiet road where questions breathe.
And found that truth is softer than belief.
I built a god that fit inside my mind.
And called it faith, though it was mostly blind.
The dust of men still clings to every claim.
Yet mercy moves where no one seeks for fame.
I asked for signs, for certainty, for light.
But found a deeper silence in the night.
A teacher spoke of lilies in the field.
And showed that strength is found when hearts can yield.
The sky did not respond the way I planned.
No voice came down to help me understand.
He said the poor in spirit see more clear.
Because they hold their emptiness sincere.
I thought that faith would lift me up above.
Instead it pressed me down into a love.
We build our towers hoping to be known.
Yet lose the ground beneath us, stone by stone.
Not bright with answers, clear and easy made.
But something steady that did not quickly fade.
A fisherman was called beside the sea.
And left his nets to learn what it might be.
The Gospels speak, but never force the ear.
They meet the heart that’s willing to come near.
I tried to climb by being good and right.
But slipped on judgment dressed in borrowed light.
A father waits, not distant or severe.
But present in ways we struggle to revere.
Confucius said the gentle path is wise.
Lao Tzu smiled at force that always dies.
I saw myself in Peter’s shifting ground.
So sure, then lost, then nowhere to be found.
The Buddha saw desire’s endless thread.
Christ broke the bread and said the self must shed.
I heard the cry from Thomas in my doubt.
And knew that faith still lives when we reach out.
We try to rise by lifting up our name.
But find that pride and sorrow are the same.
The cross stood still while everything gave way.
No grand escape, no final word to say.
The mirror shows a fractured, shifting face.
Yet something whole still lingers in that space.
And in that stillness something pierced through me.
A truth that does not need me to agree.
A tax collector kneels in quiet shame.
And leaves more whole than one who boasts his name.
The more I fought, the more I felt it stay.
A steady pull I could not think away.
The last are first, the wounded lead the way.
The night reveals what hides inside the day.
Not proof, not logic neatly tied and sealed.
But something only softened hearts can feel.
I read the words and feel their edges turn.
Not rules to hold, but fires in which we burn.
Confucius taught the order we should keep.
Lao Tzu said flow and do not force the deep.
A kingdom not of gold or iron might.
But something like a lantern in the night.
The Buddha woke from suffering like a dream.
Christ walked a path that cut through what we seem.
And still we wander, restless in our need.
Planting ambition like a poisoned seed.
And in this weave, no single voice commands.
Just truth unfolding softly in our hands.
We grasp for certainty in fragile forms.
And call it truth while hiding from our storms.
I wanted God contained within a name.
A sacred word that I could hold and claim.
The cross appears where power seems to fail.
A broken man, a story we derail.
But every name began to fall apart.
And left a quiet reverence in the heart.
Yet in that loss a deeper thread is spun.
A quiet victory already won.
Not less belief, but something more refined.
A humbler knowing, softer in its kind.
But we resist, we tighten what we hold.
Afraid to trust a love we can’t control.
I saw that I was never meant to stand.
Above the world with truth held in my hand.
We measure worth in numbers, praise, and gain.
And wonder why it always ends in pain.
But kneel within it, open, small, and still.
And let that presence shape me as it will.
The teacher writes no doctrine in the sand.
Just traces time that slips from every hand.
The irony became a gentle guide.
The more I bowed, the less I had to hide.
And says forgive, though none of us are clean.
And see the world as more than what is seen.
The less I claimed, the more I felt it near.
Not distant God, but حاضر, always here.
We want a sign, a thunder in the sky.
Yet miss the truth in how we live and die.
No longer seeking proof to make it real.
But learning how to trust what I can feel.
A seed must fall and vanish from the eye.
Before it grows beneath a deeper sky.
The Father was not waiting far away.
But in each breath I almost threw away.
The mind resists what heart begins to know.
That letting go is how we truly grow.
In every small act mercy leaves undone.
In every chance to see we are still one.
The narrow path feels empty, sharp, and long.
Because it strips away what we call strong.
And slowly then, without a grand display.
My need for answers started to decay.
We chase the self as if it could be saved.
Yet find the self is what must be unmade.
Not gone, but quieter, held more at peace.
As if my striving finally found release.
In every wound a hidden door appears.
Unlocked by love, not opened through our fears.
So now I walk, not certain, but aligned.
With something greater than my restless mind.
The prodigal still walks in each of us.
Returning home through failure and through trust.
And though I fail, and doubt, and lose the thread.
I trust the path is held where I am led.
We think we stand while others fall behind.
Yet blindness is the deepest of its kind.
Not by my strength, nor clarity, nor sight.
But by a love that meets me in the night.
A woman weeps and washes dusty feet.
And finds that grace is quiet, close, and sweet.
And asks not that I master or defend.
But that I trust, and follow, to the end.
The world demands a ledger of our worth.
But love erases every line at birth.
And in that trust, so simple and so small.
I lose my grip, and finally give it all.

…

DCG