Between the Hills

Between the Hills

(“But as for me, my prayer is to You, Lord, at an acceptable time; God, in the greatness of Your mercy, Answer me with Your saving truth.”  Psalm 69:13)

I’ve given up just a moment before I
grasped the boiling point of water. So high on
Everest
the water bubbled nearly on its own.
Sometimes I wonder if timing counts at all,
sometimes I beg beyond belief for an answer we
all can appreciate.
I wrote down every request and believed it until
I was too old for it ever to happen. My vision
might be blurry looking so far ahead. I thought it
was faith, but it was probably just a
figment of my imagination.

I wrote it in the flyleaf of my Bible,
I wrote it full of belief. I wrote it when
I had nothing to show for
myself but a few notes on the piano.

God did not answer, and I felt unworthy.
His servants ignored me or took me to lunch
and lauded me with their uncomfortable questions.
No, I did not finish my meal.

So here I am, a thousand miles and a half
divorced from the soil that germinated me.
My soul is sore with sorrow. My memories have
not changed
even though the landscape points to a hidden place
between the hills on the river shore. Now I
don’t want to be remembered; I want to
walk the boards on the stage, write the blocking
in the margins of a newly minted play, and wonder
if the troupe will be at rehearsals on time. I want a
festival artfully filled with folk tunes under an Autumn moon.

God is not my debtor; God owes me nothing at all.
The rain this morning turned to sunshine by the afternoon.