Prayers In My Bonnet
I tie the ribbon tight,
the bonnet framing my face
like a small cathedral,
and I feel the pulse of something greater
in the way my hands fold,
in the rhythm of my breath,
in the sway of my hips as I rise to stand.
God lives here, I realize,
not only in words whispered from pages,
but in the shuffle of feet on wooden floors,
in the hum of voices blending in song,
in the sway of shoulders, the lift of arms,
in laughter that rises like incense.
Every bonneted head in the pew,
every hand clasped in another’s,
every nod and glance carries prayer
more tangible than ink on paper.
I feel it pass between us-
a language older than our voices,
woven through the curves of our bodies,
spoken in rhythm, felt in bones.
The music rises and I rise with it.
The bass hums, the drums call,
my body answering like a bell,
each step a declaration:
I am here. I am alive. I am held.
Faith is not stillness.
Faith is pulse, motion, connection.
It is in the sway of the church,
the laughter in the kitchen,
the hands that braid, hold, and lift.
It is in us, and it is between us,
and it carries us when words fail.
I bow my head beneath the ribbon,
and I know that prayers live in every movement,
every breath, every glance, every song.
I am stitched into them,
and they are stitched into me.
And in the rhythm of our living,
I feel it:
God is not just out there.
God is in us,
and we carry God together,
in the shape of our bodies,
in the weight of our love,
in the beat of our hearts.
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