Am I Dreaming, or is this My Reality?

Last night I dreamt it was the Lord’s Day.

Some Sunday.

I guess one day I gained the gumption to show my face.

Decided to vacate my fears.

Temporarily leaving my safe space.

Some Sunday.

I guess one day, I made it to the entrance.

Tried to not make a peep.

The sanctuary doors opened, as did the familiarity.

Tried to locate distant memories:

Voices I’ve heard before, and faces I’ve seen.

But unexpectedly my eyes and ears did deceive:

There stood a congregation of a different liturgy.

Black gestures. Black spirits. Black melodies.

Black hands extending out, inviting me to sing.

Holding a different hymnal. In a different key.

Some day.

One day, I guess I was drawn into this service.

As I looked around nervous, it wasn’t the same old burden.

Didn’t see those whitewashed tombs.

Or lackadaisical worship.

Black hallelujahs shook the walls of the church and

Black hands were cymbals that moved the earth and

Black faith invited souls that were healing and hurt.

The joy of this holy black spirit brightened the stained glass.

While I sat bewildered haunted by ghosts of the past.

This community praised with wild jubilee!

And I was focused components that previously ruined me.

Some Sunday.

One day. I guess I mustered up the power to be present.

Stepped foot in an atmosphere full of iridescence.

Those cymbals. Those hands. A colorful display of heaven.

Yet found myself to be stressing.

Worried about people who weren’t even there.

Who didn’t have this essence.

Some day.

One day. I guess the scales will fall.

One day, I’ll have the wherewithal.

And for once, I can live.

Some day.

I guess one day, I’ll be the cymbal.

One day, that holy black spirit.

Clapping, with all I have to give.

Written by Devans Eli. Copyright 2024. All rights reserved.