Sunday Morning

I thought I head You whisper to me this morning.
In between the plucking of violin strings and gentle drum beats,
to melodies that have lost their fragrance, but not their charm.
In between scripture, greek vocabulary, jokes about old cars.
These age old truths and freshly decorated principles stuffed in goat skins ready to explode and spill out all over the newly mopped floors of the old, trendy Baltimore warehouse.
Just a faint, small voice.
It didn't sound like my normal, doubting self.
Soft but assured, confident beyond my wildest dreams.
Even as my faith fails me, the age-old questions rediscover themselves again and again.
I commit and doubt, re-commit and take another step toward candle lit alters.
But it always feels like several steps back into the mist, damp and humid.
It's like condensation on the windows of my soul.
Every time I wipe it clear, it just fogs up again.
The voice draws pictures like the finger of a child.
They were silly images and ideas floating about my soft, impressionable brain.
Intimate homes amongst grand cathedrals.
I am speaking Words I barely believe in,
to crowds I am typically captive to by impression and reputation.
But as I speak, the Words come to life,
and I am not afraid.
I feel full, connected, and integrated.
My tenderness and sensitivities are strength.
The crowds build bridges upon them,
to one another,
and to God.
Seconds later, the vision is fuzzy again.
As I doubt my doubts again and again.
How long will I ignore this?
How long shall I doubt?
How long will I flip these possibilities over?