I see the concern in her eyes and she pulls me close and tells me,
She said she really had her feelings hurt.
Of course she did, I say. I would have, too.
And I feel it. The pain of guilt. The sting of my neglect.
I strain and try to remember why I had failed her so. I try to remember something so that I can dismiss the reality of the truth.
Wasn't her pain during the months when the pain here stole all services from me but one? Missed Sunday after Sunday after Sunday.
I try to remember that far back so that I can excuse? Yes.
And is the holy day my only day to love?
Does that service of joined fellowship with Jesus lovers replace my servanthood when it should only enhance what the heart knows to do?
Do I think my life and my time and my pain is heavier than hers?
Then I do not know. I have not learned.
For I am wrong and my love is spinning backwards and away.
And still I learn these lessons again.
And isn't every day - every moment - every breath holy?
There is only one service and doubling the meaning only defines my failure.
So I write and I stamp and I pray words on paper can tear down the brick between us I cradled and mortared with sloppy heart.
