“It’s hard to climb a tree in a dress,”
Little girls are told.
[Little girls? No, me.
I was told.
I climbed the tree.
I wore the dress.]
Can true adventures really be well-mannered,
real quests to pluck ripened fruit,
when you are wound in cloth like cassock,
concealing healing wounds,
revealing wounds to heal?
It is hard to climb the chancel steps,
but still I go.
[A priest? Me?
Those clothes don’t fit,
That collar not right.]
I climb, mounting words strong from well-worn work,
hefting heaviness of a world gone wrong,
bearing the weight of wonder,
concealing glory, revealing salvation,
lifting red fruit crushed to wine,
breaking a body offered for healing,
dressed in alb,
concealed wounds made known,
brokenness made whole,
on a tree.
Clothe me, O God,
so that I might climb to thee,
in everyday life,
in childhood backyard orchards,
trees with lifted praying hands,
plucked avocado spread on toast,
common, but somehow,
put to sacred use.
Clothe me, O God,
so that I might climb to thee,
in everyday life,
in stories told at table,
sorrow and joy, common words scaling heights,
Our daily bread, one more glass of wine,
Common, but somehow,
set aside for uncommon use.
