I envy those who find meaning—
ultimate, shining meaning—
in the vaulted ceilings of churches,
in the stained-glass mosaics of belief.
To believe, to belong:
what a gift, what a shelter.
Their hands steady on the railing
as they climb toward something sure.
And here I am,
in that strange liminal space—
not here, not there,
stretching, straining,
my fingers grasping at fragments
like a child clutching at fireflies
only to find their glow fading in my hands.
But sometimes,
oh, sometimes—
I feel the hand of Jesus on my shoulder,
his grasp firm on the back of my neck,
not cruel, not harsh,
but certain, steady,
turning my head to see the one thing
I’ve been too lost to notice:
a hurting person,
a bleeding soul,
the living, aching epitome of meaning itself.
And then the bricks of the church fall away.
The scriptures curl into ash.
The dogmas dissolve into the wind.
And all that remains is this:
a solitary soul,
fragile and trembling,
to cradle with my prayers.
In that moment,
meaning doesn’t whisper;
it roars—
a locomotive on slick tracks,
bearing down on me
with speed and certainty,
and I know,
for that fleeting instant,
what it is to live.
I can smile again.
I can breathe again.
But then the tracks disappear,
the moment shifts,
and I fall into the next pit of self-pity,
the next empty stretch of road
where the glow dims
and the questions grow sharp again.
This is the cycle of meaning-making:
to lose and to find,
to stumble and rise,
to cradle the fragile pieces of ourselves
and others,
only to drop them and start again.
Perhaps this is faith, after all—
not certainty,
but the act of reaching
for the next hurting hand,
the next bleeding soul,
knowing that when the walls fall
and the words burn,
the act itself
is the meaning.
And when the locomotive comes again,
I will smile.
And when the pit comes again,
I will pray.
And when I reach,
I will find
another piece of the whole,
another fragment of that great mosaic
of belief,
of belonging.