by Mary Harwell Sayler
Pentecost – the day I’d long awaited through
dust and ashes, Lenten dirges, and the veiled
face of the cross. For fifty days and nights,
filled with longing and white lilies, I considered
Pentecostal possibilities – new study group,
new hope – renewed awakenings from long ago.
I went to an unfamiliar place, feeling sent
to see, to wonder. What?
Is no proclamation prepared for me? Did God
forget the Upper Room where we would meet?
These feet have tiptoed lightly on carpeted aisles,
swayed and stumbled beneath the push of
expectations, uncertainty, and, yes, pride.
Do all chants sound the same? Is there
another name or tune or time for
tapping out discrepancies? Without church
arms outstretched to bear the strain of my
offense, who will straighten this lurching
load? To regain a steady balance by myself
seems far too great a task – beyond all reach.
I stand on shaky ground with trembling
knees, sinking toward a ninety-degree
angle in which, most rightly, I sit or kneel.
Oh, God! How do I get out of this
uncomfortable position? How do I admit –
even on Pentecost, when Holy Spirit
soars – I cannot fit myself to fly?
©2015, Mary Harwell Sayler, poet-author of 27 traditionally published books in all genres, is on a mission to help other Christian Poets & Writers through blogs, writing resources, and e-books such as the Christian Writer’s Guide and Christian Poet’s Guide to Writing Poetry.