Do you remember when that pastor came through

That graying, thin man looked at me and you 

Our lead pastor thought he deserved the microphone 

I guess because it was his own pastor from back home

We were in our late teens then

Late bloomers 

We clung to our dads 

Remember all the fun we used to have?

We’d go to the beach on a whim 

We steered clear of doomers 

We used to sit in those church chairs 

We could hear a million sermons and never have blank stairs

That pastor said some things about us: leadership and purity 

That you and I were seeds 

I still recall your notebook and your bubbly handwriting 

Every word we heard was so exciting

We built our lives on it 

Later on, we inevitably discovered life outside four walls 

College and career 

I can’t remember when you stopped answering my calls 

You landed on my couch one afternoon and told me about it all 

How you grew to hate that microphone 

And the smell of the pastor’s cologne

Because your dad was a pastor too, you had access to everyone’s home

You saw the women 

Boxed up, as if in detention 

Different words behind closed doors 

Strict objectification and chores 

I don’t blame you – you took off

I just kept a distance 

We both hoped there was some truth in the church’s existence

We never called it feminism 

But we always believed in our ability to lead, and in purity and wisdom 

Sometime in the past 20 years the microphone quieted

Widows united 

And you and I found each other again 

On our beach at 14th 

Trying to figure out those men 

Where is the truth?

It’s like trying to find a diamond earring lost in the sand

I guess some things we’ll never understand 

We see our fathers for who they are 

Mortals 

Just like pastors

You and I never pick up the mic 

We honor our fathers 

And so on Sunday mornings now, in our late 30s, we meet up on the boardwalk 

And we ride our bikes