I have a Baptist church pitcher of holy water on my counter
I don’t know how many Sunday’s it witnessed
(Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?!),
but I celebrate the holy water it gives and they gave me.
The preacher arrived bearing a coffee cup filled with good will
opening their church home to me with an invitation
I didn’t accept because they were giving me something
I did, wanting to find a church home, with loving heart
Sunday arrived as did the parishioner to cart me to redemption
There I sat in a church so big, cold, overly puritanical
The ceilings dripped chandeliers over the congregation
I sat through the service where the nice people smiled nicely
I sat through bible study which didn’t feel much like home
I hugged while exchanging pleasantries
with a half-promise to return and a Baptist pitcher in hand.
About a week later, the pastor, accompanied by a scary believer
showed up just in time to help unload my chicken coop.
We shared our views where we sent one another away in love.
But I think of them every Sunday when I nurture my plants
as well as every night when I set the coffee pot with holy water