church is the most consistent variable in my life. three houses and fifteen years
it took me to realize. in fifteen years i’ve learned who killed abel but not why i should see god in blooming daffodils.

is home a steeple? i do love stained glass sunlight & silver cups, but. i used to believe god played the organ, and there are decade-old drawings fingered into velvet pews half a country away, but.

but even after seven hundred eighty-nine sundays, why must i still chew the inside of my cheeks, on longer possessing the patience to love, hate, and pray on command, and lacking the talent to lie?

what is a home if you still question its foundation?

is home predisposed, or chosen?

...

what is a home if you don’t question its foundation?

…

i’ve been forgetting to count myself in groups lately. i hope god doesn’t have the same tendency.