Heíll be home soon,
and Iíll sit with him while he hacks heads
and slivers sea bass, profess not to puke
when he pokes eyeballs with toothpicks
and chases me round the smelly room,
teasing and taunting, fish eyes rolling off
the picks onto floor to mix with scales and
miscellaneous fish debris.
Iíll play along for awhile, but soon beg respite
to plan next Sundayís attempt at brunch for two
and pray it will not be another absolutely
perfect day for the sea to surge with fish,
Next Sunday Iíll dress
the table with gramís china, dazzling crystal,
his murky pot of grind, my favorite latte,
omelet supreme and raspberry pancakes.
Appeal and ambiance not found in finer fare
or fancier functions, at least not in our neighborhood.
You see, heís promised me church ... and itís not
the laurels heíll give for my food ...
but the hope heíll sit close to me in the pew,
lean his shoulder into mine, brush my cheek with his
warm breath when he whipers how glad he is
he came this time and hadn't gone fishing.
On a usual Sunday,
we eat soggy cereal. I smile as he winks
and claims ďweíll have a fish fry tonight! Ē,
collects gear and walks towards the door.
I rise; hold his arm, kiss his lips; wish him a happy day
as I wonder if I should slip a scripture card in
his tackle box; make a bigger case for the choirís
new director, the much improved music heíd so enjoy.
On a usual Sunday,
I rub shoulders in church with several women who
paddle the same boat as I, labored chants of
ďstroke .. stroke .. stroke,Ē keeping us afloat on the river of faith
each day as we look to God for daily patience and hope for
our husbands who have yet to be caught.
Tonight, when he comes home,
Iíll meet him on the front steps, hug his neck, make a fuss
about the ďbig fishĒ he proudly shows; tell him how he was missed.
Later, heíll come to me, lift my face to his,search to see if Iíve been crying.
Heíll tell me he knows I want him to know my God and heíll
keep his promise of brunch and church next Sunday.
Iíll slip my hand in his and say, ď Letís get to bed, honey; itís been a long day.Ē
Iíll lie awake, my hand on his chest measuring each breath
as sleep overcomes. Iíll move the other to cover his forehead
and ask God to bless him, keep him, until the time he will be
drawn into the kingdom by the Spirit, through faith in Christ.
And then ... my God will become his God.
Iíll be glad I hadnít slipped a scripture
into his tackle box, Iíll choose another way
to love my unsaved mate. Iíll fish for his soul with
respect and a life lived in the Light of a Glory who is God.
Iíll dream of raspberry pancakes, church with his hand in mine
and the hope of a big catch to come.
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