The questions have been piling up for years now, growing mildew, gathering dust. The answers I thought I knew have toppled like a Jenga tower after one too many nudges. I'm falling apart from the inside, synapses shorting, the delicate architecture I've constructed melting into mist. I held these truths to be self-evident but they were only innocent until proven guilty.
How is my faith stronger now than ever before? I've picked through that pile of queries, washing out the stains, freshening their scents, and now I eye them out the window as they dry on the line. My mind still strains against the dense ceiling of my skull, struggling to solve this disturbing mystery of reality. But I'm learning the hard lesson of contentment in the land of tension.
One thing my blissfully ignorant gut has never stopped proclaiming: I can be friends with God without knowing how big he is.