Belief is a mass of complexity and mystery. I throw rocks at the papery gray dome to simply hear it speak, to see if it will react. I prepare myself for flight. But it is silent. It's word already delivered, once and for all, to the saints. The swarming silence of belief still requiring belief. What is the alternative? It compels me further into Christ and that is enough.
Belief is hanging on with teeth and nails. It is being graced with enough stubborn energy to dig in for the long haul, whatever the price. It is hope.
And it is love that generates and sustains belief. And in my saner moments, in the haze of my lucidity, I walk around the house fingering a knotted woolen cord, muttering "Kyrie, eleison" in triplicate.