Spirit
“Faith begins where control ends.”
Show Me
God—I’m saying,
please show me
the direction they can’t.
“Direction is revealed when certainty is surrendered.”
God, now is the time.
I need you to reveal
the hidden line,
the path I should be taking.
My Apple Maps
has GPS.
My Google Earth
has destinations.
God—I’m saying,
please show me
the direction they can’t.
Not the fastest route.
Not the safest one.
The right one.
Lead me
to the place
I can stand in
and remain.
Cover Them
A quiet prayer spoken without spectacle—about trust, protection, and releasing control while still standing watch as a parent.
“I can’t be everywhere.
So I ask You to be.”
God, please protect my children.
Out in this world, living.
I can’t always be their security.
So secure it in me—
that they are covered
from the top of their heads
to the soles of their feet.
Learning the Words
Faith doesn’t arrive fluent.
Sometimes the body learns before the mouth remembers.
This is how practice begins.
“Faith begins where certainty ends.”
Heavy walking.
House shaking.
I’m trying to learn salat,
but the words keep slipping.
Bismillah…
Abu says,
Musawwir
hold your head high.
As Ummi watched from a distance
Kneel down.
Now.
Turn your foot in like this.
Stay right there
until I tell you to move.
Now say these words
after me.
Bismillāhi r-Raḥmāni r-Raḥīm
Astro (Grounding)
Not because I’m lost,
but because my natural state is movement.
“Celestial by design.
Rooted by survival.”
Leo. Aquarius. Pisces.
Which means I’m Aang.
I’ve mastered everything
except grounding.
No earth-bending.
So I float—
looking for foundation.
Not because I’m lost,
but because my natural state
is movement,
perception,
depth—
more than solidity.
Someone to Talk To
I didn’t need answers.
I didn’t need saving.
I just needed someone
who could sit with the weight
without trying to move it.
There are moments when your phone feels heavier than usual.
Not because it’s ringing—but because it isn’t.
No one to call.
No one who would understand the version of you that showed up today.
That’s when I call on God.
Not for answers. Not for escape.
But because silence has a way of telling the truth.
He doesn’t flatter me.
He highlights what’s right and what’s wrong—
the things I’ve done well,
the things I keep pretending weren’t choices.
My sins.
My deeds.
And somewhere in that stillness, I realize something else:
I’m not the only one who needs someone.
Everyone is carrying something unseen.
The mistake is thinking the answer lives outside of us.
We chase conversations, validation, connection—
scrolling, reaching, explaining—
while the signs inside keep flashing the same message:
Empty.
Hopeless.
Maybe rejected.
But the life I’m living,
the choices I’ve made,
didn’t come from their perspective.
They came from mine.
That’s when it settles in.
This isn’t the moment to be understood.
It’s the moment to become responsible.
To sit with myself long enough
to hear what I’ve been avoiding.
If there’s no one to talk to,
this is the time
to let that someone else
be me.