There were two people standing next to the crazy guy I avoid when I see him raving on the sidewalk. He's the one who sits with all the signs about sin, hellfire, homosexuals, babykillers...underneath all that is "Jesus is the light."
The young woman was blond and wore jean cut offs. She touched the man's arm and spoke earnestly as he listened. A pale young man stood beside them, head bowed.
I watched with fascination across the street, touching the rosemary bush. Then I crossed back over. I didn't want to get involved, but I was curious.
"Well, we could be here all night," Hellfire signs guy told the girl. "I'm 60 years old. I like to live each day as my last."
I couldn't quite hear her. I stared into the window of the travel agency. The rosemary oil on my fingers was very strong, like incense. I kind of felt as if I was having a religious experience. I realized that the ornate building on the poster in the window was probably some sort of church.
I crossed the street again. Now the girl was touching the older man's knee. The young man prayed earnestly, fervently, with deep concentration.
(Remember when you were just four? "Pray for Missy." She was an older girl, perhaps ten or twelve. She had been injured in a car accident. Her father carried her. In your house, you prayed on the steps to the basement. Then you went to church and watched her stumble toward the front, crying. She was re-learning how to walk.)
No comments:
Post a Comment