I used to dress Him in robes,

in rules,

in the tired cadence of sermons

spoken louder than they were lived.

I thought the pulpit was proximity.

That faith came with fluorescent lighting

and laminated bulletins,

and only counted

if someone else could see it.

But somewhere along the unraveling,

when my hands were shaking too hard to fold

and the pews felt more like prisons,

I stopped looking for Him

where they told me He'd be.

And found Him

somewhere simpler.

Not in a building,

but in breath.

Not in doctrine,

but in the weight of my son’s head

against my chest

at 3:17 a.m.,

when I whispered I would never leave.

I do not kneel these days.

I don’t memorize verses.

But I feel God

when I make eggs for three small mouths,

when I laugh without guilt,

when I sleep without fear.

It was never Him

who shamed me.

Never Him

who stayed silent when I cried.

It was people,

draped in borrowed authority,

too afraid to admit

they were guessing like the rest of us.

I don’t trust churches anymore.

But I’m learning to trust stillness.

To trust the voice that says,

You made it.

You are not ruined.

You were never too far gone.

Faith looks different now.

Less performance.

More presence.

Less sacrifice.

More staying.

I don’t know all the right names to call Him.

But He answers

just the same.

Read the Final Poem Available Online

Settled: The Last Letter I’ll Ever Write to You