Day 44: Sing

My friend died, brutally, of cancer.

I’d like to gather my thoughts into an elegant essay on her memory wall, as so many of her friends and family have done. But I don’t want to think about it.

I do, however, sing with her.

See, she had a Disney princess voice that was the centerpiece of several secular and religious singing groups. My relationship with God is like a suffocating wool sweater, itchy and uncomfortable. But singing along to her recordings feels like a pure channel to something beyond all of that.

My friend, my heart still hears you singing.

Day 36: Pulpit

When you asked for volunteers for the “Worship Leader” position,
The child inside my mind saw
The nun at the end of the hall,
Pale as chalk, lips like a bird’s beak,
Who called us “dearie” instead of learning our names.
The priest striding through the parking lot,
Black-clad and stalking his way into my bicycle dreams.
The child saw a rosary, fought over,
And a candy cane thief.
The child heard a voice without identity,
Habited, enraged,
Cutting down one who called them by name.
“Let me know if you can help.”
The child, watchful, lets the beads scatter.