Sunday Stranger

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

The man at the entrance handed me a bulletin from the top of a large stack.  He gave a vacant smile—a smile saved up all week long for Sunday strangers.  His eyes focused somewhere just above and to the right of my forehead.  It made me wonder if there was a fly caught in my hair.

The music grew louder as I crossed the foyer and entered through one of the sets of heavy double doors to the sanctuary.  Slipping into a back pew, I glanced around.  The church was old with dark mahogany and stained glass, the pulpit a million miles away.

The congregation was in the middle of a song, led by a golden-robed choir with bright faces and sure voices.  At the close of the song, a smile in a suit encouraged the people to spend a few moments greeting those around them.  The lady in front…

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I Caught the Wind Today

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

I caught the wind today.

It wrestled my hair, trapped in the tangles.

It rushed in my mouth, stealing my words, pressing the back of my dry throat,

then rushed out again on a squeal of joy and a breath of respect.

My coat wrapped tightly,

it snuck in the crannies, coloring cold my prickle skin,

but I hugged a tighter me, trapping it there,

warming it with my pressing.

I caught the wind today,

hair and hand and panting self;

but before I closed the door, I let it go

so to find wind still another day.

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That I Am . . .

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

Be still . . .

     be quiet, unplug,

     no talk radio,

     no I-pod or I-pad or I-anything,

     no racing thoughts and mental list making.

And know . . .

     in my head,

     in my heart,

     in my emotions and stubborn pride places,

     really, really, really.

That I . . .

     relational You,

     intervening You,

     inviting, not just theoretical You,

    the I Am kind of You.

Am God . . .

     King of the universe,

     Lord and Creator of all,

     Friend come close and generous gift-giver,

     Lover . . . in spite of me.

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Voices

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

I hear the voices from fairytale days,

of bruised knees and bloody noses in the night,

of dogs and games and Disney

to pouts and pen and ink on walls—

and happy endings to bursting and weary days.

     I hear the voices of sweet Camelot hours,

     of swings and things dirty and germy,

     of teeth brushed and songs sung

     to whines and colds and sorrys—

     weary endings to full and happy days.

          Now worlds distant in faith and place,

          there’s weakness in these spiraling days,

          and all I can do is cry and pray

          when I hear them in the night—

I still hear the voices.

1-30-12

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