The Cycle of Meaning

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.