Unbuilding

Do you believe in God? I used to answer quickly.

Now, I pause —

not out of rebellion, but reverence.

I dismantle doctrines like old furniture,

finding splinters of truth and tradition embedded in my hands.

The creeds I once recited now echo with questions, each word a doorway to deeper understanding or further doubt.

In the quiet morning, amidst the smell of roasted coffee, I find sacredness in the mundane, grace in the unspoken.

Scripture pages worn thin from searching, not for answers, but for the presence that lingers between lines.

I am both the builder and the ruins, the seeker and the found.

Do you believe in God? I still ask, not seeking certainty, but connection.