Waiting in the Corner
I often sit at the end of the row, off to the side.
Were you to come in on a day not named Sunday,
you could easily miss me.
I sit still. In the stillness.
At times, I pray. More often I just sit,
waiting for God to speak.
Mostly, he does not. At times he does.
It’s never words. I wish it was.
I would love to be one of those so sure,
so certain they have heard him clearly, plainly,
justifying their dictation, like an old testament prophet,
but so often clashing
with the prophet down the street just as unequivocal.
But I am not one of those. He speaks to my heart.
He makes it soar. He makes it hurt.
Sometimes, he speaks through my stomach.
That’s never a good thing, but
it’s generally pretty clear what is being said.
You try it. Translating a heart and a stomach
into a sermon, or a life.
So I am less a prophet than a searcher.
A scribe. A teacher or what I know and what I do not.
Unsuited, I sometimes feel, for the work
I am called to. You have no idea
how often I question myself.
But I have no answers.
So I sit here, at the end of the pew
on a weekday, and wait
for the one who does.
About this poem.
I often do go sit in the corner of the church I serve as pastor. I never question my calling, but I do often question the whys. And man would I like to actually hear the words from God. I suck at hints.
The picture was taken from where I sit.