Raised inside rooms of too-bright light and strict rules,
I learned that obedience was the language of divine love—
knees bent, eyes down, a hymn to belonging.

In Sunday School, we sang of angels while clipping
our own wings, polishing the gleaming floor with our silence.
The walls glowed not from kindness, but from the unseen
friction of our restraint.

Then one day, the smallest sound—
not thunder, not protest—just the click
of something loosening in the soul.
A thought not allowed, yet too alive to die.
It wasn’t anger that set me free,
but the unbearable understanding
that all of us were guarding each other’s cages,
thinking we were saving one another.

Now, when I meet the eyes of one
still dwelling in that narrow circle of light,
I don’t shout across the distance.
I simply open my heart and let them see
how faith can live unbound.

Northern VT ~ photo of author by Greg Popa