Being a person of faith is a tough gig in a world such as this one.
Church leaders turn a blind eye to abuses.
Shepherds fleece their flocks.
Bigotry and back-biting run rampant.
But there are still so many good people doing the right thing.
Some of them are atheists, some are Muslims, some are gay.
All trying to raise their kids, do their jobs, pay the bills.
My minister isn’t an old man with vestments and a scepter.
It’s that little boy who defended his albino brother from bullies.
It’s the painfully old lady carefully pulling her ancient sedan
into two parking spaces at the grocery store.
Waiting in the car in the sweltering summer heat
sits an even older lady with sunglasses covering her whole tiny face.
It’s me, carrying my dog out into the yard for one last try,
even though she’s on palliative care and her literal last legs.
It’s me again, alone at the vet’s office, signing papers
to take away my own best friend.
There for each other.
There when nobody’s watching.
There but for the grace of God.