Hands and Hearts

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.