Before I tell you God’s name,
I will teach you
the language of rain.
How the earth sighs
before it drinks.
How the baobab
doesn’t apologize
for taking centuries
to become itself.

Before I hand you
a holy book,
I will place
a seed in your palm
and ask,
“What does it teach you?”
Perhaps
that everything sacred
begins unseen.

Before I teach you
who to fear,
I will teach you
how to wonder.
To greet the morning.
To thank the river.
To listen
when the wind borrows
the voices of old trees.
I will tell you
that your ancestors
are not shadows
to run from,
but stories
to learn from
their courage,
their mistakes,
their unfinished songs.

You do not have to inherit
their chains.
Only their wisdom.
I will not raise you
to obey every voice.
I will raise you
to recognize your own.
To ask questions
that make comfortable people uneasy.
To choose kindness
when no one is watching.
To repair
instead of hiding.
To stand
without making others kneel.

If one day
you find God,
let it not be
because someone frightened you
into belief,
but because you recognized
the same breath
in the stars,
in the soil,
in your neighbour,
and in yourself.

And if your journey
leads you somewhere
I never expected,
go.
Take your questions with you.
Take your compassion too.
For I did not raise you
to inherit my certainty.
I raised you
to become
fully,
fearlessly,
awake.