Hymnal Scraps

It’s the time of year again to take the screen off the window upstairs—to my father’s annoyance—and climb out onto the roof—to my mother’s dread. Apparently climbing on the roof is dangerous, and I know I might die, but I probably won’t.

I’ll fly away.

Anyway, today is not a day to care that much. If I do die I hope someone spreads my ashes on the ground somewhere, so someone else can come along and doodle with their fingers in my dust. Little hearts and stars, a crush’s name, whatever, some eloquent graffiti.

Glory, hallelujah.

Maybe kids will be doodling different things by then, if I die when I’m old. Older, anyway. When I was sixteen I became an old soul. And an old body, on the inside. I often wonder how I’ll feel when I am old in number of years. Damn kids, get off my lawn. Or come in for some cookies. Or just lying in bed, having grown a bit more tired with each year past thirty. I could see it going any of the three ways, and I could see a crucifix on my bedroom wall. And when the shadows of this life have gone, all the old will seep from my bones.

I will fly away, oh glory.

But I hope it doesn’t seep from my soul.

I doze on the roof and the scorching sun bakes fever-dreams into my frontal lobe.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? You running, legs flickering. You running, arms pumping. You running, running, running.

Coming forth to carry me home.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? A band of angels on the Cimarron, the grasslands rippling like an ocean with waves dry, dry, dry.

Coming forth to carry me home.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? Myself, spread with neglected crops of devotion and selflessness, so raw and vulnerable to the frequent plagues of arrogance.

Sinner, please don’t let this harvest pass.

Roused, I look out from my place on the roof, and what do I see? Rednecks on four-wheelers, crunching sharp gravel as the dogs herald their coming. I crouch on my gable among the muggy air and mayflies, smoke of a brush fire, salty asphalt in the sun, spiders in the shingles. I burn and I climb down, face stinging, muscles weak and sore from the strain of precarious balance.

Come ye sinners, weak and wounded, sick and sore.

I climb back in through the window, grimy, hot and thirsty.

Come ye sinners.

Come ye sinners for the refuge of watermelon mint iced tea and the sweat of a horse on the insides of your thighs, for my holy hippie Savior at Golgotha. Glory, hallelujah; the forgiven whores in the street invited to His party in the RV park where welcomed are all the well-intentioned and the strivers-to-be-kind, the humble and flawed. Come ye sinners for cold potato salad and the best whisky-cider for miles. He’s a citronella candle, shedding light and the bugs won’t bite you here. Come ye sinners in your sweat pants and flip-flops and barbecue stains, come ye sinners with your partners and your cigarettes. Come ye sinners dripping with diamonds, as long as you let the little girls borrow them to play princesses with their Prince in sandals and robe. Come ye sinners with your books, if you’ve brought them to share your wisdom instead of display it. Come ye sinners, it doesn’t matter. Bring your guitars and your voices, lovely and awful; either He is tone-deaf or He just enjoys your company too much to care. Come ye sinners with your wax wings and He’ll sew you up some real ones.

I will fly away, oh glory.

Come ye sinners, young and old. Lucky for me, I’m both.