Not Optional

It seemed like the cream-puff option

A trip to my knees

Petitions launched upward

To Someone, Somewhere

While life and duty

Pressed forward and inward

And anger and self-pity

Almost room-mates.

But that Saturday

In the workshop

Knuckles rapped by a slipped wrench

Curses uttered

The “one day off”

Becoming tiresome.

Then two words

Out of nowhere

“Listen Son”

“Whassat?”

I couldn’t pass them by

Not just foolish imagination

And a strange sense

Of a Presence.

Then it seemed my own thoughts

Had the podium

‘You complain

Never content

Self-pitying

Blaming many others

Marriage faltering

Job on thin ice

Never a new day

Faced fresh.’

And again, “Listen Son

And we’ll talk some.”

That was the beginning

Workshop turned cathedral

Time that I never calculated

Turned holy.

And He was there for me and mine

The Glow returning.

And I started

To lift up others.

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