Questions, Untranslated

Dear God,

I am asking You to meet me — not later, when I am stronger, but here: where my prayers circle themselves, and the light within me that warms rooms and draws people near flickers.

You say You honour Your word above Your name. You say: ask, and you shall receive.

I come with questions,

asking for answers I may not be able to carry — answers that might need to be strong enough to hold the foundations of a human heart.

How does one lean on heaven when the line between faith and force feels less like a boundary and more like a negotiation?

Is it possible to ever be fully known — or is intimacy only approximation? Even love seems to arrive in brown envelopes, with blind spots.

So how much of ourselves must remain untranslated for us to remain ourselves, even in pursuit of it?

How holy is the space between that distance and the very thing that aches?

Even with him — this gentleness that arrived without asking me to be lighter than I am.

Even when he looks at me as if brightness and depth can cohabit, why is it that I still feel the limit of being known?

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