IV. Worship in Wrestling

I found the Spirit

not only in shouting

or trembling hands,

but in

thought

and

the turning of pages

thin as belief.

Professors with eyes

like quiet rivers

taught me the holiness

of thinking,

the worship in wrestling—

how Scripture bends light

through ancient grammar

and fractured manuscripts

and human longing.

Jerusalem dust

clung to my shoes.

The wind and waves

of Galilee

kissed my skin

with tender assurance.

I prayed in ruins,

sang beneath arches

older than nations,

stood where prophets broke

and kings knelt

and disciples doubted

and still followed.

Grace came in small steps,

tumultuous seasons,

and persistent pursuit;

In adoption papers

with our names scribed

into a hopeful future.

Faith stretched,

softened,

deepened—

not abandoned,

but rooted

beyond certainty’s shallow soil.

I learned God

was not threatened

by questions—

only silence.

I learned Spirit

does not retreat

from thought.

She inhabits it.