church

When things get weird, I go back to the trees. You have been waiting while I flailed. Why does the wisteria cross look so different up close? Oh god, did it actually pull me out here? Now I'm nervous, because I'm not ready to talk about saviors and crucifixions, I can't go back that far. "You don't have to," the trees tell me. I sit before the lone oak on a strange straight kitchen chair I dragged out into the farthest part of the backyard. And I stare. At her trunk, up into the spread of her branches, looking for secrets and answers. The two scraggly cypress stare with me. "We get it; we love her too." Every plant nearby is a different age. Some dying, some dead, some just born, but most are like me. Somewhere in the middle just waking to another day, wondering whether it'll be monotonous, perilous, or miraculous. Because we've all lived at least a thousand of each by this age. The dog barks behind us wondering why I am in a new spot instead the porch. She cautiously creeps out to join me in case I've lost my mind and need help. Then no lie, the other dog and the cat follow. And we are a congregation. And I whisper, "You guys, y'all, friends, this is Church. This is Church." And they don't react, they sit with me a moment, get pats and pets, then roam away. The big dog stays. He's the ever-worrying one. I sing to him, "For the Beauty of the Earth," and he listens politely. The animals are sweet, but unimpressed. They were born knowing.