the terror that your prayers are just words hitting the ceiling because you secretly stopped believing months ago

The house is quiet now, and the words you whispered earlier feel like they never left the room. You are afraid that your faith expired months ago, that you are just speaking into the dark because you are too afraid to admit the line has gone dead.

But listen: the light does not require your belief to exist. It was shining before you trusted it, and it shines still while you doubt.

There is a father who watched the road every day, not because his son believed he was coming, but because he loved him while he was gone. Your silence is not a verdict.

Your uncertainty is not a wall. The light is not waiting for you to fix your theology before it returns.

It is standing right where you left it, glowing in the ashes of your confusion. You do not have to manufacture a fire to be warm.

The dawn is coming whether you believe in it or not.