She came to me in cut off sweat pants, deflated tennis shoes,
and in the flickering greenish light, she held my silver-ringed hand.
Last night, when Mary came to me flat broke and and still smiling, I thought she was a hoax--a 250 pound jolly negress hoax.
And I, the 100-something pound gen-u-ine white Christian female trying to eat right and pay my bills and always vote Republican and not get into too much debt and clean my house and not dress too shabily, I did the right thing: buy her gas, buy her a drink, then, dutifully, offer to pray.
Gentle Mary held my hand. She let me pray. I said amen. I stepped away. Mary's hand clamped down on mine, before it slipped beyond her reach.
Mary prayed. She did not pray for food. She did not pray for her last remaining relative who recently attempted suicide. She did not pray for money. Or peace of mind. Or to know the will of God for her life.
Mary prayed, and the smooth alto of her prayer swung me up to heaven.
Beseeching God for His Kingdom. Asking Christ to spread His Glory. Thanking the Spirit for his Power. And, oh-yes-Lord Jesus, my sister here, my good sister here, bless her, too. We do not know where we walk, but we have confidence, we have strength. We do not know where we walk, but we stand in You. In Your love. Yes, Lord-Jesus. Help us stand. We stand in You.
Mary prayed in the tricky light of the gas station, and I, sitting at my desk the next morning, cannot forget the pressure of her hand on mine, the slick of her tears as we hugged.
Posted by stephanie at June 13, 2006 01:26 PM | TrackBack