Heaven, Are You Listening?

Heaven, Are You Listening? Faith spoken through clenched teeth I don’t come gentle anymore. Not with folded hands or polished prayers that sound like certainty. I come with fists in my mouth, holding back questions that taste like doubt. Because faith— the kind they taught me— was supposed to feel like peace. But mine feels like pressure, like trying to believe while everything around me is breaking the promise. Heaven, are You listening? Or am I just speaking into a sky that learned how to echo but never answer? I’ve whispered. I’ve shouted. I’ve gone silent long enough to hear my own heartbeat beg for something back. And still— still— the quiet stretches. They say, “Trust the process.” They say, “He’s on time.” But time feels different when you’re the one waiting with empty hands and a heart that’s tired of hoping in circles. I want to believe. I really do. But belief isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, like holding onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers. Sometimes faith sounds like clenched teeth, like, “I’m still here… even when I don’t understand.” Because I’ve seen people lose everything and still say “God is good.” And I wonder— is that strength, or is that surrender to a silence we’ve learned to name holy? Heaven, are You listening? Because I am still speaking. Still showing up with words that don’t feel holy enough, with doubts that refuse to bow, with a heart that keeps breaking and calling it devotion. If You’re there— meet me here. Not in perfection, not in polished belief, but in this raw, unfiltered reaching. Because this— this trembling, stubborn, questioning kind of faith— is the only kind I have left.