Every couple weeks, Mary comes to my front door.
We've had talks about God, God's will, the kingdom coming.
I've helped load a tv stand into her trunk, dutifully offered
my open hand to the colleagues she brings along with her.
One May day, I served her granddaughter a pomegranate popsicle.
Today she came knocking. It's Rosh Hashanah.
She figured I'd have the day off and, she was right, I did.
This time, though, when she started talking about
the latest passage she thought I might like, I said, "No,
no more Mary." Then, as if some tourniquet had been loosened,
I started crying and talking, spilling out all over my front porch.
I said we believe in the same God, we admire a merciful man
named Jesus, we have read passages from a book
that gives us both some direction and solace. I told Mary,
with her wide eyes, that she and I were doing the exact same thing:
trying to do life right. It just looked very different for each of us.
I wiped tears with my shirt sleeve, my nose was running.
Mary, with her soft eyes, said, "You seemed so bothered;
what is it really, Jean?" I said, "This is not sadness or anger
boiling out of my body, this is resolve you are seeing."
I thought, this is my shofar finally blowing its strong sound.
I wished my friend a happy new year. She said she loved me
and I said the same back, then I walked her down the staircase, across
the wide street to her white mini-van, and hugged Mary good-bye.
No comments:
Post a Comment