Church bells rung
candles lighted
welcome offered
we stand to sing
while my four-year-old sinner
covertly armed with a forbidden ballpoint
draws a blue smiley face
on the red velvet cushion of our pew

Under a blanket of hymn
I am scolding
hoarse whispers of dismay
my mind rushing through means of erasure

I am void
no water
no soap
not even a wipe
so I stand through the long hymn at the ready

Deftly as the music ends and knees begin to bend
I reach behind and
flip

Same on both sides
the cushion is clean again
our defiling mark concealed
pressed and smiling
against the wood where no one sees

I was afraid so I hid

Long has this stain remained.
Years.

If a congregant reads my confession I wonder
will she stay late some Sunday
to search like an Easter child for eggs
turning over cushions in the sanctuary
calling like God in the garden
Where are you?

I dream she finds it
I dream of her victorious expression
I dream she pulls her own ballpoint from a purse
and bites off the cap

I see her kneeling
back to the alter
before our secret stain
in my dream she sees me watching and
winks
as she signs her name.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem at the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Andrew Seaman on Unsplash