Holy Doubt

They told me doubt was dangerous.

But I think pretending is worse.

Because I’ve raised my hands like branches in worship

while my heart was splintering,

and I’ve said “Amen”

with a mouth full of dust.

I’ve begged God for answers

and only heard the cathedral of silence in response.

I’ve opened my heart to His Word,

looking for comfort,

and found a mirror instead.

And yet

I still believe.

Because even in my doubt,

something in me

keeps whispering His name.

That has to mean something.

Faith without doubt is performance.

Faith with doubt is real.

True faith is Job,

covered in sores, still praying.

It’s Jacob,

limping after the fight,

but refusing to let go

until the blessing comes.

It’s the Bible you keep

in your nightstand drawer

under tattered receipts

and dried-out pens,

because opening it feels like

calling your ex at 2 a.m.

You don’t expect an answer;

you just miss being loved.

Maybe the sacred

was never meant to be certain.

Maybe true faith

is daring to doubt Him

and still calling Him God.