A Muddled Encounter

A Muddled Encounter

(“May God, who gives you this endurance and encouragement, allow you to live in harmony with each other by following the example of Christ Jesus. Romans 15:5) 

As I was walking, jacket braced against the cold,
I passed a neighbor across the street I seldom see.
I glanced toward him
and then away, when he said something to me.
With my earbuds tuned to a favorite podcast,
I barely heard what he said. Indeed, I could not
decode it.
So I turned my face back to the sun, smiled, and
waved and hoped
it an appropriate response to whatever he said.

The possibility remains that he said nothing at all,
just background noise in my ears. Or he said something
to his pet pug at his feet.
The possibility remains that he asked me a question
and I dismissed it with a wave.

I hope you did not misunderstand me; I hope my response
was appropriate. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow to rearrange
my words into a more palatable stew. Maybe you didn’t even
notice me. Maybe you wished I knew your name.

It was those few moments of a muddled encounter that
stayed with me through the afternoon. It was such a
tiny thing
occupying the front door of my thinking. I always
pet the dogs I pass, and wave at the cars. But I
will never know if my neighbor thought me unsocial,
or noticed me at all.

Hidden in Windowless Rooms

Hidden in Windowless Rooms

(“However, if it’s from God, you won’t be able to stop them. You may even discover that you’re fighting against God.” Acts 5:38)

Hidden in windowless rooms
awaiting our number to come up,
we feel the clouds close in on us,
we feel the breath of those who shoot
opinions
like dragons full of fire.

We were well-respected, weren’t we?
We’ve owned our stories and told the new one.
Have we threatened the few at the
peak of the pyramid
who send down their edicts like
gods on fire?

We carry no arms,
we do not stockpile caches of weapons.
We walk barefoot, our feet are calloused.
We walk barefoot, our hearts are tender.

Don’t misunderstand. Some of our stories got
the best of us. Some of our history divested us
of any hope to ascend the temple steps that
ripped our unshod feet. We knew how we looked
in the campfires of deceit.

But we are a band bound tight by our miscomprehensions,
we sing in our cells, we pray on the floor. We remember hymns
at midnight while
the rulers knock to find what we are praying for.

I offer my plate, complete with undercooked meat;
I offer my cup with dust napping on top.
The bread is still warm, the crust crisp from the
oven of stone.
The wine is simple. The dialogue drops tears,
one, two, or three,
onto the servings we share when we gather here.

We walk barefoot with our leftover loaves,
we invite more beggars like us to
share our discomfort with wrought-iron fences
and walk the fields where conversation is as
filling as the meals we remember.