You Hugged the Rain

You Hugged the Rain

(“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31)

I remember everything.
Except your words.
I remember your face like the aura
of a child. I see the way your eyes crinkled
every time you smiled.
I remember everything.

I’m sorry if I ever ignored you,
or if I ever cut our phone calls short.
I was guarding my own heart for so long
I sometimes thought an early goodbye was
better than
adding more words to your memory. You already
seemed
to be filled with too many lectures.
But I could have listened longer. I could have.

I thought you were ready to explode like
a water balloon landing on the ground. And then
I’d look again
and the water, seeking its own level,
settled behind your eyes. I know what it’s like
to shut everything tight
and lock it up for fear of being exposed. Usually
I would discover, walking in the cold, that I could
find and alley where the snow had not yet been plowed.

I’m weary too. But I’ve seen you when you forgot the
pressure. You played like a child. You hugged the rain.
You waved down silly hitchhikers to give them directions to town.
But it wears me out too.

I should have met you for ice cream more often.
I should have mentioned the waterfall that washes our
shame away like
the first sunny day following the snow.
I wish I knew because I would have
remembered everything.
Your words. Your pain. Your loves. Your refrains
of distant songs. Your worth. Your worth. Your worth.
I would have remembered everything.

The Road Had Deceived Him

 

The Road Had Deceived Him

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 25:4)

He was happy where he landed, but
did not like the way he got there. He
wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed or
left him any chores to do. He
backed into the driveway carefully,
maneuvering the rented trailer
behind him.
The road had deceived him.
The trailer was gone.

He was tempted to retrace his steps,
find his lost belongings. He wanted it
all back.

Perhaps it was the roadside attraction
that distracted him from noticing the trailer
was gone.
Nearly home, though unsure when or how,
he had spotted a simple sign on the boulevard,
“Help Wanted” it said. And he vaguely remembered
“pastor” scrawled at the bottom.
He followed the arrow around the corner
and saw the fieldstone building rising.
It was modern architecture with a nod to
gothic cathedrals. There were
months between him and the last time
he entered a worship space this early.
Pulling the darkwood doors open, he
breathed the oil and candles deeply.
Two men sat at a folding table, one with a
clipboard, the other saying nothing. They asked
his name,
he explained why he came. Did they need the
services of clergy today?

They would have let him sign the application,
they looked glad that someone wanted to fill the
spaces within. But then he remembered why
he had left the last pulpit early. The pain returned
as he gave them back the pen.

He was happy where he landed,
but did not like the way he got there.
He removed the empty hitch from the
bumper of his worn-out car. He left
so much behind and little before him.
The days were deceptively silent.

Today he gave a neighbor a ride home.