quieter in some ways, louder in others,
cooler air, brighter lights,
and a band up front performing
the same two songs fifteen times
until the words feel more rehearsed
than prayed.
Nothing wrong with it.
People mean well.
But sometimes I miss the way it used to be,
when faith felt like family,
And Sunday wasn’t a show
but a gathering of folks
doing their best to hold each other up.
Those days are gone,
tucked away like old hymnals
with frayed corners and Bibles with penciled notes,
songs you didn’t just sing,
You knew them,
because they’d carried you through something.
But they still hum inside me,
soft and steady,
like a memory that refuses to fade,
a reminder of where I learned
What grace really sounds like.
wcd
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