prayer from July during my 40 day quiet

Uneasy tension of meeting in my rocking chair, underneath a tree, desperately wanting to be legitimate-but is that to the old beast system of monolithic concrete temples. Maybe a building will make me real. Make me a real pastor. Make me invited to the ministerial alliance. Do I need all that? I remember fog machine worship, bright screens, and chairs, like pews, and buckets passed around- could I do that again? Is that really success? Is success watching Kris flush her meth, praying some Celtic blessing, as the toilet water washes away her sins while radio head lingers in the back ground? Bowed knees next to porcelain screaming God hear our prayer. My church of today meets my illusion of yesterday. Is it success, two tattooed lesbians ache over the loss of their puppy, my heart and hand extended on my front porch under the stars as the crickets mourn for us, pass the cigar, dear. Round tin at the door, catching change and pocket lint, but who’s it for? Offering that we will give back to the stranger who admits their gas tank feels empty, broken down, falling away. I need to give the district numbers and baptisms, but it feels like failure when I stare at the smart goals, and the success measurement. The Redneck Abode has hosted speakers and whistlers and enchanters, hoping to help these fundagelical rejects, my bapticostal misfits know there is a loving God. And I am still in the south. Still a woman. Still a pastor. Still. And all the while, Terry says “Baby, go get some medication.”


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