The Chapel

In this house, there’s a chapel where I go to have long, rambly conversations with God.

It’s a small room, filled with soft corners and surfaces

Filled with old books and coffee stains

And filled with light, raining down from a stained glass ceiling.

I’ve dreamed of this room for a long time.

In this dream, in this room, there are two chairs.

Mine is hard and wooden, pushing against me.

I dreamed up a chair as harsh as my pride,

Refusing at times to acknowledge that I need

More than just a few minutes of God’s time.

Always thinking I have everything handled

And I just need a quick chat.

But instead, I sit across Him for hours,

To weep,

To doubt,

To praise,

And to argue.

And He sits there, in a long, cozy couch, under a blanket.

His shoes are set aside, and his coffee is hot.

He’s prepared to stay for a while, to listen, to sit, and to see me.

I could never get over the fact that He’s happy to see me

Because I come with so much angst.

But He’s happy every time; He’s excited to join me

And to hold my hands until they stop vibrating.

In the chapel, He’s angry with me about recent injustices,

And sad because He knows how much I miss my grandmother.

He’s patient with my doubt and confident that my faith will grow.

And He’s never, ever in a rush to leave.