I reach to the sky, and I am gnarled, sharp, and desperate.
I reach and pray and wait. There's only silence, quiet like a winter afternoon when the sun is blindingly eye level and the shadows are long and tortured.
The light is there, but I still feel cold.
So I get mad.
I throw my mustard seed out the window and search for other things.
But...
I am starting to think the silence and the quiet is the answer. The stillness is my mustard seed; my chance to practice faith and trust.