My Question

Surprised, I stopped and noticed it –
A question – hiding behind my confidence,
The quiet voice I forgot was there,
Familiar against my silence.

This mark, I thought, had gone away –
Scolded and disciplined for loitering.
Instead it wagged its finger at me,
That question that is questioning.

Should I be worried? Is my faith weak,
I asked, If unresolved the mark remains?
If I have answered more than once,
How long until it stays away?

I took my stance before the mark
As though it were not there.
Exchanging weakness for my strength,
I lowly knelt in prayer.

Even lower did I stand
When I was answered not a word.
Was it the fault of mark or mine,
When my prayer went unheard?

With my adjusted stature,
I saw no place to hide,
Not for me, nor my question,
Beneath confidence, stature, or pride.

I resolved myself to move along
With intentions that are good,
And when my mark no longer questioned,
That’s where my answer stood.

Some answers come by gentle words
That match the quiet voice.
Yet some are found by pure resolve
And in the honest choice.

Perhaps the mark found a place
To hide until I’m weak.
It’s finger to wag, and words to wave
With tongue placed in cheek.


What I Believe…


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