THE STONE WALL

I went pretty far back

into my memory bank.

Don’t quite know why I made the journey.

 

I was resting on the stone wall

behind the first church I served

waiting for time to close in on 11 a.m.

On the other side of the wall

was an old cemetery.

 

Soon I would enter the door

that would take me near the pulpit

and I would lead worship

for some sixty folks from Alfred, Maine.

 

I was a mighty green preacher

but I worked hard at it

typing away on an old machine

during the week

in the attic of an ancient parsonage.

 

I felt happy and amazed

about what I was up to

Sunday after Sunday:

the agnostic changed

into a clergyman

and accepted by people

I came to love

because they loved me.

 

Having a pretty wife

and a darling son

helped that along.

 

That stone wall

on which I leaned

on so many Sunday mornings

and which gave me courage

for a task I prayed about
has found me reminiscing

about a time I seldom honor

and wish to now.

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