Antioch
Antioch is a little, white church on a hill. With aches and pains it welcomed us in every Sunday. It was a place for the weary—respite for tired hands and feet.
My mother, unwed and with another baby growing in her belly, sat at the back of the church with her head slump down—me, sleeping peacefully in her lap. It was the pastor who finally called her to the front of the church and gave her a reason not to be ashamed.
Old womens' arms and prayers held our little family together. During altar call, mommy would kneel on the stiff bench with tears in her eyes—praises flung up to the sky.
At Antioch my brother and I grew and flourished. We were the darlings of the church—the fresh dreams and hopes of barren wombs...
Years later, I returned to the little, white church on the hill. Antioch was still the same—but life had changed. This time, my brother was locked in a cage, and I was standing at the altar with my mother lying beside me in a wooden box.
I stood there, in front of the church, to thank my mother for her love and for her life.
Afterward, the same old women with soft and fleshy arms that carried me in to adulthood, were there to catch me as I fell. And Antioch watched—pleading to God, one last time, on my behalf.
My mother, unwed and with another baby growing in her belly, sat at the back of the church with her head slump down—me, sleeping peacefully in her lap. It was the pastor who finally called her to the front of the church and gave her a reason not to be ashamed.
Old womens' arms and prayers held our little family together. During altar call, mommy would kneel on the stiff bench with tears in her eyes—praises flung up to the sky.
At Antioch my brother and I grew and flourished. We were the darlings of the church—the fresh dreams and hopes of barren wombs...
Years later, I returned to the little, white church on the hill. Antioch was still the same—but life had changed. This time, my brother was locked in a cage, and I was standing at the altar with my mother lying beside me in a wooden box.
I stood there, in front of the church, to thank my mother for her love and for her life.
Afterward, the same old women with soft and fleshy arms that carried me in to adulthood, were there to catch me as I fell. And Antioch watched—pleading to God, one last time, on my behalf.
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