Log Blindness

By Michael M. Murray

She needs help with the door. You open it.
Their fridge is empty. You fill it.
Clothes are tattered. You replace them.
No job means no paycheck. You line one up.
Goodness lies in your heart – ready to burst at any moment.

It’s Sunday again.
As usual, you head to church with your wife.
For 14 minutes, you speed and ride other bumpers.
You prize the lifted pickup truck almost as much as your bride of 37 years.
You’re relentless, broken.
You both boast, curse, and complain.
Each of you reveals bitterness, fear, greed, self-centeredness, and bigotry.
“I’ve had enough of those gay people,” you tell her
“These sinners – they’re going to rot in hell. Now they want to have a festival!!”

You often have log blindness.
Now you can’t see well. You’re looking for specs in others’ eyes.
The light inside you dims.
Darkness delights and cackles with each victory.
Neighborly love is the remedy.

You straddle two parking spaces.
Soon, familiar faces surround you. Maybe revere God.
Word spreads fast like the best computer processor.
In the foyer, you hear the news.
He punched her – again – two nights ago.
Bigger bruises this time.
You’re not surprised.

The “did you hear” stories take root.
They’re ripe for the telling.
The audience is quick to hear while stiff-arming God.
Sin. Spares. No one.
“She cheated on him.”
“I’ll bet he lied to get that promotion.”
“They say he’s a gambling addict.”

You take your seat alone; the padding suits you.
You look for someone to notice you.
The guy packing an extra 75 pounds stands by you in the wall aisle.
He loves food as much as you.
You talk about sports, home remodeling, and your riding lawn mower.
The first worship song began 52 seconds earlier.
One of you throws in, “And how are the kids?”
God waits in the wings.

Your wife walks in two minutes later.
Her news basket overflows.
It’s packed with true and alternative facts.
She takes your hand. Bliss.

Worship words appear on every screen.
No one else sings nearby so you don’t either.
The pastor teaches from Matthew 25 and Mark 12.
Always love your neighbor and the marginalized – no exceptions .

On the way home, she shares from her aging news bounty.
She clutched it for the 32-minute sermon and closing songs.
You gleefully absorb her words.
Now you’re home. Your sweet oasis.

In the evening, you gaze at your favorite pornography websites.
Later, you call a longtime friend.
He’s the same man who keeps clobbering his wife.
He was always there for you during your cancer battle.

The next day, the next week, the next year, you lend another hand.
You are kind to strangers on planes, in stores and stadiums.
At times, you feed the swelling darkness in your heart.

God finds others who will give water to gay children and adults at an event.
He sends someone else to offer a much-needed hug.
He assures a transgender teen that they matter.
They flush the pills and throw the rope far away.

He’s there when straight and LGBTQ+ people dance together.
They embrace what seems like forever and laugh till their stomachs hurt.

God’s love weaves like the wind. Weightless energy with no end in sight.