Monday Thursday (a poem)

When I was a kid
this was my favorite
service of the year.
The strange irony
was how it brought
my faith to life.

Though I never understood
why we called it “mon-dee”
like that rough day of
week’s opening with
an extra southern twang,
I figured it just meant
that something new
was about to begin,
in God’s time rather than ours.

I loved the drama of it,
the low light and
the muted stained glass.
The twelve candles guttering
and gusting out with
each new story told.
The sweet familiar taste
of bread and juice
made sweeter in their
proper day and time.

I felt closer to Jesus
then than ever.
I could see myself
sitting at his table,
his hands cupping my feet,
bearing bread to my mouth
with my name on his lips.

When the final moment came:
the deafening beat of drum
and the louder silence after
that carried his death,
I admit I still felt giddy,
just to know so well
that I belonged.

All these years later,
both grown and pastor,
I could laugh at
just how wrong I was,
how much I missed the point.

Except that,
all these years later,
I’m not entirely convinced
I did.

One thought on “Monday Thursday (a poem)

  1. Pingback: All The Poems I Wrote in Lent | Reverend Fem

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