When the Siren Won’t Stop

A prayer/poem for the spirit-homeless

When the Siren Won’t Stop
A prayer/poem for the spirit-homeless

What do you do when the siren won’t stop?
When the world hums like a fluorescent light, and everything feels a little off, a little broken?
When the faith you once held doesn’t hold you anymore, and all you’re left with is an empty fridge, a ripped screen, and a question?

This is a prayer for the anxious.
For the ones deconstructing their faith but still searching for something sacred.
For the ones who scroll, ache, panic, and still show up.

If that’s you, this is for you.

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I keep waking to a world that hums like a fluorescent light,
a little too loud, a little too tired, a little about to break.
The screen is ripped, the day is ripped, the heart is ripped.
There’s a push notification for everything except peace.

Empty fridge. Empty bank account.
Half a tank and a whole ache.
Bills folded like paper altars on the counter.
I offer up what I have: a sigh, a swallow, a shaking hand that still makes coffee.

The algorithm disciples me at 6 a.m.
It catechizes with clips and quarrels.
It wants my eyes, my attention, my outrage, my hope.
It gives me a crown of comments and calls it communion.

Religious systems sold me certainty in bulk.
It went stale in the pantry of my soul.
The labels promised heaven.
The taste said plastic.

I don’t need a ladder to climb today.
I need a floor that will hold.
I need a Presence that doesn’t pretend.
I need you.

O Patient Pulse in my panic,
O Breath between the breaths,
O Low Music I can barely hear beneath the fire alarm of my thoughts—
stay with me while the siren won’t stop.

Bless the mundane that refuses to be small:
the cracked mug that still warms my hands,
the washing machine thumping like a second heart in the hall,
the dog who doesn’t care about my theology and just wants the leash.
Bless the checkout beep, the cheap bread, the chipped bowl.
Bless the people who show up anyway,
with casseroles of kindness and texts that simply say, “you around?”

There are societies without friends and cultures without traditions,
neighborhoods without neighbors, holidays without meaning,
storms without an eye, only wind upon wind.
Give me shelter that is not a slogan.

I used to think faith was a spotless sanctuary.
Now I think faith is a bathroom floor at 2 a.m.,
a body shaking but breathing,
a wordless prayer that sounds like “stay.”
It is not tidy. It is true.

Here I am, God of the unglamorous miracle:
rent due, courage due, patience past due.
Teach me how to live when nothing lines up,
how to love when my hands are full of fear,
how to see the holy hiding in ordinary light.

Blessed are the ones with ripped screens and ripped lives,
who charge their phones at midnight and still feel empty at dawn,
who refresh the bank app like a liturgy and whisper, “help.”
Blessed are the ones who haven’t quit on goodness,
who believe but feel homeless,
who carry their altar in a backpack,
who light a match in a dark kitchen and call it prayer.

Blessed are the tired saints of the small yes,
who clean one dish, send one kind message,
eat one orange, take one pill, walk one block,
and refuse to call that nothing.
Heaven claps quietly. Earth takes note.

Let every buzz of my phone become a bell calling me back to breath.
Let every scroll become a soft refusal to hate.
Let every headline be answered by a hidden act of mercy—
an apology I owe, a dollar I can spare, a name I can learn.

If the church cannot carry this weight,
then let the kitchen table be my pew,
the back porch be my nave,
the afternoon sun my stained glass.
I do not need a perfect creed to be held.
I need you, here.

No pep talks today.
Just presence.
No silver linings.
Just the slow gold of attention.
Sit with me in the siren,
and teach me to be the eye of my own storm.

I will try to believe that love is not a theory.
It is a loaf shared, a ride given, a call returned.
It is a hand on a shoulder that says, “you are real to me.”
It is you, unafraid of my unfixable places.

So here is my altar: a list I cannot finish,
a grief I cannot name,
a future I cannot budget.
Here is my amen: a breath I did not earn
but I will not waste.

Stay, God of the steadying hand,
God of the kitchen-sink sacrament,
God of the storm and the stillness after.
Stay until the siren learns my name and grows quiet,
until I remember that I am not alone,
until wonder returns like a shy bird to the fence.

And when I stand again—
not taller, just true—
walk with me to the next small mercy.
We will call that worship.
We will call that enough.

amen.

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If this prayer met you in the chaos, I’d love to hear about it.
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