It walked through my door
this past week. I had
seen it before. I had
just never
heard its name spoken so plainly before.
Even now, I'm a bit dumbfounded
at the thought of it speaking--
offering up its own name.
It sounded, by all notions,
American. And it appeared the same as well.
It had a gender, a sex, a story. And
it all looked and sounded so genuine, so
familiar... Complaint.
Really, it ranted of nothing more than
what you'd call a nail in the tire. But
there was a searching to this complaint.
I thought it was a longing for comfort, to be
told,
It will be okay. But
it was not.
I picked up the nail here.
Here? How do you know?
I don't know for sure.
Well, then I guess maybe you did. But
it will be okay.
Yes it will, just as soon as
you tear up the parking lot and
put a new one
down.
For so long we ask so little of
one another,
demanding nothing more than
a seat,
a sip,
a share in the trickle of water, a bit of
the crumbs that fell to the floor last night.
Then, suddenly,
the personal takes over.
In a moment of grace
too troubling
to answer for, air begins to escape.
Who penetrated us?
No one can say for sure--
Not
even
us.
It will be okay, I told them at the door.
Come in,
sit in your old seat,
get drunk from our cup. It's
weathered, but it will hold.
See, THIS is that happens here.
But they insisted nails are what happen here.
You could have picked up that flat anywhere.
Here.
They handed me 500 dollars. I recognized it. It was
the same 500 dollars they told they
once gave to have their name put on the wall.
What's it for this time?
For you, (to say) the nail was yours.
I glanced up at the wall where their name hung. I
caught the gaze of Jesus next door. He was naked,
plum naked, on a cross.
But the artist had done
such a fine job with the brush that
the paint still looked wet. The
blood from the nails, fresh.
Sorry, but I didn't do it this time.
I handed them back the money,
which felt heavy
from time and
sorrow.
They say it's the young,
with their Sunday Soccer, who are killing religion.
That their absence is now hardly noticed by
those who wish they'd come around more often.
But who can blame them for staying away? There are
nails in the parking lot!
Adiaphora.
To this day, I sometimes still hear the old saying it's
the nails
that saved them.
PleaseGrace 