resurrection sunday (revised)

between transitions:

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?"