You enter the sanctuary alone.
There is no congregation, no choir.
The lights are off. The heat is turned low.
The morning sun comes through the windows.
God, they say, lives here.
In the shadows. In the light.
But you have always suspected he was more Bedouin than that,
wandering with the wind, traveling
to meed the souls where they are.
Fields. Mountains. Cityscapes, hidden
in the corners, dancing in the streets,
he is there
and today, while you wait, he is here too,
never waiting, always chasing souls
determined, like two-year-olds
to do it themselves.
About this poem
This whole two-year-old “I’ll do it myself.” thing works great. Until it doesn’t.
The picture was taken at Lithia Baptist Church in Lithia, Virginia. I took it through the window because the doors were locked.