The Smallest Seed, the Highest Mountain

What is faith,
but a door carved from air,
a bridge unseen, stretched between now and eternity?
What is faith,
but a name whispered to a mountain,
a name it cannot ignore?

You ask for proof,
for stone to bend before your eyes,
for valleys to rise at your command.
But faith is not a tempest,
not a thunderclap demanding the sky’s attention.
It is the seed in the hand of the wind,
a thing so small, the world laughs
and yet, it moves what cannot be moved.

A mustard seed, He says.
A sliver of trust pressed between trembling fingers.
A whisper against the roaring doubt.
And suddenly,
the mountain shudders,
its roots remembering the voice
that first spoke it into being.

Faith does not shout.
It leans forward,
and the impossible steps aside.

The world waits for miracles shaped in fire,
for signs written in the language of lightning.
But faith is quieter,
a poem the wind hums into the ears of the willing.
And the mountain
the one they said would never move
gathers itself like a pilgrim
and walks away.

– Matthew 17:20