I see my faith in pieces,
Like so many shattered porcelain teacups
That were once perfect in form and function.
I weep for the lost wholeness.
Or I would, if I could remember how they looked before they fell.
Buy my memory is weak.
I have a sense of grace, now long departed,
And of surety, of a thing complete.
I wonder if I’ll ever get those pieces put back together,
Or if I will be forever cutting myself
On the sharp edges
Of a childlike, beautiful faith.