trader joe’s tulips and goodwill vases are the only excuses I have to get out of the house anymore.
trips to target for aquaphor and rides to work that have been slowly adding up, mile by mile, minute by minute.
I don’t think I believe in a singular higher power, but I wish I did. I wish I could believe that someone had a plan for me. That I didn’t have to worry so much about making one for my own life, because someone else had my back, knew me enough, and wanted the best for me, to do so.
And I’ve tried. I walked between the pews, I kneeled on red leather risers, I watched the light dance through the stained glassed stories and I lined up for the blood and body of Christ that I hadn’t earned, but was told to say I did.
And every time, I drowned out the priest. Or the pastor, on a few sleepover occasions.
I spoke to someone else, someone else spoke to me.
It was silent except for us two, and I don’t know that it was God.
All I know is that it told me the work wasn’t in there, it was out here, and ever since, against push and plea and museum trips, I’ve stayed out.
But lately, out of desperation more than genuine belief, I’ve been driving by those locked wooden doors, wondering if anything had changed inside.
If the stories still shined through the glass the same way, if the red leather would be a little warmer.
If maybe this time, I would hear the priest out, or just hear that second voice again.
I wonder what she would say now.