Rain on Sunday

It’s raining.
Church still happens,
even when it rains.

A friend used to say
it hardly ever rains on Sunday mornings.
We’re made of sugar.
Persnickety as cats.

Frizzy hair.
Sogged-out Sunday best.
Lost umbrellas.
Squishy shoes.

God shows up,
even when it rains.
I didn’t.
Oh, how I missed it.

Old feelings of guilt.
They trace a familiar path,
like drops of rain on the window.
I roll over and go back to sleep.



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