The hymnbook doesn\'t hold your voice,
though you press it tight,
edges crinkled like autumn leaves,
waiting for a wind to lift them.
Kneeling feels less like surrender,
more like a habit.
I watch people light candles,
their faces flickering gold and shadow,
asking for flames
instead of warmth.
I think of the woman who prayed
for her neighbor’s son to heal,
while forgetting the weight of her own.
She wore joy like a second skin,
her devotion shaped by love,
not by rules etched in stone.
Some carry ladders to climb higher.
Others build tables for everyone to sit.
I go looking for those table builders,
the ones who call your name
without needing to sign their own.