Sunday Morning

As a child, it was a fishbowl.
Any misdeeds in among the
second graders would
reach my mother’s ears
before the benediction
like a miracle.
After, at home, the
were served with a side
dish of solemn reminders to
act like the example I
was ordained to be.

It has, at times, been a job
in my adulthood.
Greeter every first and third
or standing with the altos.
Season after season
of Easter musicals and
Thanksgivings and
Christmas carolings.
One stint on the board, oh
god, and that’s enough
to make the Apostle
Paul lose his religion.  

At times I actually believed it
all. Other times I’ve
seen the whole works
as a chalice filled with
snake oil. God loves me
could be replaced
the following week
with all the reasons
she might not. Even
still, I never felt

My heart still loves
the mystery, though
my sacrament is
usually now a biscuit
and a cup of tea.
What I believe is not
as small as what I know,
but close.
The uncertainty
and unknowing have
grown into the most
beautiful portions of this
holy journey.  

On a Sunday morning,
my face is not likely
to darken any door
unless brunch is being
served. But somehow I still
hold sacred the idea
that I am an example (I
think it’s why I teach). It
gleams as brightly in my
memory as the reflection of
stained glass morning light in
black patent leather shoes.
So I try to do what’s right,
and if they have it,
I’ll order the roast.  

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

Small Magic

This is day three in the Seven Solid Days of Smiling Salute To the Original Unsplit Atom for bursting forth into the Big Bang of Bounty that is this life.

Day 1 – Emily

Day 2 – Music

My grandson, Triston, is spending the night with us as I write this.  Earlier this evening he pulled a funny looking thing from the bedside jar where Susie keeps her pens for her nightly Sudoku.   The object in question is a twisted wooden stick with an amethyst on top.  It’s real purpose is to stick in a twist of hair to hold it up off your neck.  There must be a name for something like that, but I don’t know what it is.  However, I feel a personal obligation to answer any question Triston asks me with some degree of authority.   It’s the natural teacher in me, or perhaps the natural bullshitter.

“What’s this, DeeDee?”  He turned the witchy-looking stick around in his hands, perhaps looking for a writing point or an on button or a purpose of some kind.

“It’s a magic wand.”

“No, it isn’t,” and then a little less certainly, “is it?”

“Sure.  It’s Mimi’s Mini Magic Wand.  It’s for small magic.”

“Show me.”

Oh, boy.  I hesitated, but only for a second.  Triston has all the actual, factual, literal, fundamental information he needs from all the other sources in his life.  I rarely miss the chance to sprinkle a little mysticism his way.

“Okay, sit on the bed facing me.  C’mon, Mimi, join the circle.”  I motioned Susie into our midst and then held the wand in front of me, the amethyst suddenly sizzling like a campfire in front of us.  “What do you need magic to do for you, Triston?”

He didn’t have to think about it long.  “I want to fly.”

Damn.  “Well, Triston, most people don’t know this, but magic still has to work with the natural laws of the universe.  Magic can do a lot, but it can’t make gravity disappear.”  Okay, so it’s the natural bullshitter in me.  Actually, I believe magic probably could make someone fly, but he was just a child and I was only a baby spell-caster, so I thought we had better take it slow.  “What else would you like magic to do for you?”

He didn’t have to ponder this one at all.  “I want a four-wheeler.”

I started to say something to direct him away from the material world.  He had been out of sorts all night, whiny, demanding, rude, and difficult.  I knew something was bothering him and maybe he didn’t even know what it was.  I was hoping he would say that he wanted his mommy to be sweeter or his daddy to spend more time with him or his new baby sister to be fun to play with.  I was hoping for a clue about his mood.  But then I had the intuitive thought that I shouldn’t invalidate his desires, especially during a seven-year-old funkfest.

“Okay.  A four-wheeler it is.  Everybody focus on Triston’s new four-wheeler.  We are setting our intention for Triston to have the desires of his heart.  We don’t tell magic when or where or how.  We just tell magic that Triston would like a four-wheeler.  We see Triston riding his four-wheeler through a big field on a beautiful summer day . . . with his helmet on.”  (Even mystical grandmothers are still grandmothers.)  And we know that magic is working already to bring Triston his four-wheeler in the perfect way and at the perfect time.”

All night long, Triston had been distant, shut down, just not present with us.  But, I peeked at him during this “incantation” and saw an unfiltered expression of pure belief.  His eyes were squinted closed in prayerful concentration.  His hand rested atop mine on the “magic wand.”  I wondered if I could ever again believe as deeply as he was believing in that moment.   And then I said, with renewed conviction, “And so it shall be.”

This was as much for me as it was for him.  I’ll be watching for that four-wheeler to show up in Triston’s life.  I’m going to fight the urge to go put one on a credit card and leave it on his front lawn on Christmas morning just so he’ll believe in magic.  Instead, I’m going to believe in magic too and wait to see how it unfolds.