In the pixelated pews of my laptop’s glow,
I kneel before screens, seeking grace in code.
Sheila Walsh steadies me.
Mark Driscoll names the truth.
Click by click, I build a sanctuary online
Where broken links can’t sever my lifeline.
In forums and late-night threads, I find my tribe—
Those who’ve walked ahead, lighting the way.
Still, in this world of ones and zeros,
I sometimes mistake movement for growth.
Scrolling feels like progress
Until I close the screen unchanged.
Likes rise.
The ache remains.
Then come the moments between posts—
The cursor blinking, patient, unmoved.
No metrics. No noise.
Just breath, and Something more.
A presence that outlasts Wi-Fi,
That doesn’t dim when the battery does.
Here, nothing needs proving.
Growth happens quietly.
So I log on, log off, log in again—
Each password a prayer, each search a return.
I am student and teacher, lost and found.
My growth not measured in gigabytes,
But in ground covered—
The slow, sacred work of becoming whole.
The digital world can be both refuge and distraction.
It offers connection, wisdom, and community—but it can also tempt us to confuse activity with transformation.
This piece is a reminder I return to often:
growth isn’t loud, quantified, or performative.
It happens in the quiet—when the screen goes dark and the soul is finally heard.
Not every sacred moment is shared.
Not every truth is posted.
Some of the holiest work happens
offline.
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