Church

I came back home, dropped my Bible,

took off, my coat and tie.

“Well”, I said, “I’m home.”

“How many were there?” she asked.

“Twelve, I think counting me—maybe fourteen or fifteen.”

“Well that was a waste of time.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”

The building was 150 years old.

There were two in the choir—an old man and a woman.

The fill-in at the piano was young and good.

The music director that directed the choir of two

   must have been a hundred years old.

There was a woman there who told me

   they had been married 57 years

  and just yesterday had put him in

  a nursing home. He was slowly drifting away.

The rest were women, mostly over sixty.

Why did they come?

They came because they were lonesome.

Just to see a familiar face.

They came to listen to the music of the old

   songs even if almost nobody sang.

They came because they had been coming

   all their lives.

Habit and need.

Desperate and hungry.

Hoping to hear some angel sing.

Or maybe just to break the monotony

   of an old creaky house.

They came with their little white envelopes

   hoping that what they gave

   would keep the lights on

   or help the people in Haiti.

They came to pray the “Our Father…”

   and to sing the Doxology.

They wanted to hear a word they didn’t

   hear on the TV or in the Sunday paper.

When it was over, having touched the base

    they hugged,

   and made their way

   to their Buicks and Chevys and

   Lincoln Town Cars.

They drove home glad they had come and

   heard the music and caught at least

   part of what the preacher said.

“Was it worth your time?” she asked,

“Going all the way over there for that handful?”

“I think so,” I said, “I really think so.”