pews fill
pastor prays
bands praise
we slip in
transition
heads bow
us three
mother and me
and you
even nod
nervously,
bitterly,
anxiously,
sleepily,
restlessly
stirred
by this spoken Word
pews part
pastors prays
bands reprise
we slip out
us two. . .three. one
family
in
transition
between transitions - revised:
On those rare Christmas Sundays
when mother drags you to "come
to church with the family"
it could never be more obvious
that you do not want to be there
in the sanctuary, where the praise band
exchanges stations with the pastor
as he steps to the small stage.
that's when we slip in, mom and i,
and you too, dad, following behind
finding three seats together to
belong to for the morning message.
it's Easter Sunday today. not that
cold Christmas Eve with the evening service
you dread, because you know you can't
tell her no. And dad, you definitely couldn't
tell her no, you wouldn't go now, when
the ring in the night was her doctor's
cell phone bringing, yes, good news, but still news.
yet the strangest thing about this morning
isn't that you're sitting still here with us,
it isn't that you're not acting four, for sixty-four,
when the pastor is speaking and people reading,
the strangest thing about this morning is that
she didn't ask you to come with us at all.
and here you are with us, on Sunday morning,
on Easter Sunday morning, your one heart
and our one family, in transition.
Walking To Emmaus:
we count the days
again
again
but not again.
out the open door
we walk
and walk
and farther walk.
and pass
people
places
plans
by
bye, Jerusalem.
who we miss
have missed
must have missed something.
"Were not our hearts
burning
within us as we walked?"
