Part 2   

        “Love the sinner folks, do not turn away. Open your eyes and know their suffering. Open your ears and hear their prayers. Open your heart to all in need regardless of appearance or creed. In this troubled world, The Lord sent to Saul a frenzied band of prophets. They've traded lutes for electric guitars but the song still resonates. Hearing it, you may feel called. The spirit may be in you. Its alright, do as the occasion demands. The Lord transforms you anew. Amen.” 
	With that the band begins to play. Slowly at first. A piano's leading chords, up the scale, and down again. The long strings cast waves that vibrate through the chapel. A teenage drummer joins in, tentative, but his sparse and percussive rhythm supports the song. He punctuates the passing chords like the pimples which accent his broad infectious smile. As the band settles into the grove, the congregation begins to stand, a few at first, they’re humming and swaying with the music. A powerful middle aged woman steps towards the microphone. She's tall, radiant and beautiful with shocking red hair, bound by a loose fishtail braid. Deep crows-feet adorn her eyes and give an air of wisdom, but the patina of freckles suggest some remnant of innocence. The soft skin of her neck is aged, fine and thin. Its stretched like cloth over the wing of a glider; The muscles at her throat pull on her breast as she takes a deep breath. Relaxed, her breath is released. A sweet, steady tone emanates soft and clearly through her lips. Building with each line. 
        
         Some times in our lives 
         We all have pain 
         We all have sorrow
         But if we are wise 
         We know that there's always tomorrow

	The congregation is singing along now. Some with their arms resting on the shoulders of those beside, like cut-out paper chain people. Humming, chanting, becoming ecstatic. The crowd’s rowdy chorus carries down the aisles, through the doors to the kitchen, and outside to the churchyard. The spirit infiltrates the quiet street beyond.

        Lean on me 
        When you're not strong 
        And I'll be your friend 
        I’ll help you carry on

	Samuel feels the bass drum first, unconsciously, as it resonates in his breast. Then turning towards the sound, he notices the ebb and swell of the piano. It swings like a hammock and invites him towards the door of the sanctuary. Drawn in, he pauses at the entrance, the same spot where his young adversary taunted him minutes before. He hesitates but gives into an impulse, opens the door and steps in. The wall of sound hits Samuel like a wave. Mixed with the aroma of sweet Amber the sound enters first through his nose, then his ears. It's swirls around his empty head before coursing down his neck, his chest, and fills his body. It exits the body through his heels and his backward facing palms before it courses out the door. The spirit has him now.
	Instantly Samuel is transported into a distant memory of youth. As toddler, he is wading in the water on a sunny South Carolina beach. Smiling, the young child is enthralled by pelicans gracefully skimming the waves, and seagulls circling overhead. Mesmerized he stares skyward when a large, aberrant wave smacks him square on. It knocks the boy down, into the sandy underwater, tumbling, heels overhead. He's coughing, confused, and scared. A hand darts through the foam. It firmly lifts the boy who comes to rest on a strong shoulder. Sam's father carries him back to safety, sobbing into the big beach towel. To cast off the memory, Samuel shakes his head briskly. He rubs his eyes as he turns and follows the congregation heading to the dining room.

        Rosalyn Waters is a beautiful woman. The sorrow and loss of her challenging life is clearly written in the lines of her face, and only adds to her allure. Strangers on the street often stop, step aside, and turn their heads to follow as she passes. Her charismatic presence is palpable. She's come to this church only recently, to help it grow, with good deeds and open hearts. Neither pious nor judging, she draws newcomers with attraction rather than promotion. A few years past, in her home town in the mountains, she suffered the loss of the husband she loved, after his arduous battle with cancer. She walked in the valley of darkness, through depression and vice, before returning to the light, to guide others in need. Now she's arrived in a new town, in a new church, standing in the buffet line with her new friend, Patricia Bloom.
	“That's Sam, by the sweet-tea with jeans and a sport coat.” Ms Bloom points with her eyes.
	Rose utters under her breath, “He's cute... got a nice head of hair. I'm afraid I might break him though.” She winks slyly adding a guttural laugh.
	“Oh, he's tougher than he looks, he just doesn't know it yet.” The ladies continue to chat, waiting in line. Rose picks out a deviled egg and makes a joke. Ms bloom laughs and gathers a serving of soft glistening collards.
	Samuel's plate is piled high: gravy, greens, corn pudding with a dessert plate of pecan pie. He surveys the noisy dining room, and sees people eating outside in the sunny courtyard. Hands full, while balancing his food and pinning his tea to his bell, he depresses the lever handle with a free elbow. The door pops open as he makes a break for the patio. Moments later, Rose and Ms Bloom follow, moving upwind with a calm demeanor. Miss Bloom asks, “May we join you?” 
	“Of course, I just needed some air. I love the gardens here." He looks across the cozy brick patio through large shrubs that frame the gated entrance to the graveyard. “There's nothing quite like mature box-woods.” he offers nervously, as he takes a bite of roasted potatoes.
	“Sam, this is my friend Rose that I was telling you about. Rose, Sam is my my neighbor across the street. He has a beautiful garden.”
	“Hello Rose,” he says stirring at his plate. Then, looking up to her late winter eyes says, “You're singing was... it is moving.” 
	“Thank you... it's nice to meet you Sam.” Rose has lowered her voice. It's now soft, gentle and balmy. She continues. “I'd like to add to the gardens here. They’re lovely, but too formal, like the congregation...” She laughs, “ a bit stiff near the graveyard.” Sam laughs. “I want more flowers,” she continues, "and vegetables out front by the street, inviting people in and providing for the hungry.” 
	That’s why we hired Rose.” Ms Bloom interjects, “She ran the youth garden ministry... up in Fairview.”
	“You're not a regular Sam? Do you have another church you go to?” 
	“No ma'am. I'm not regular anywhere. I hope that's okay.” He gulps.
	“Oh your a heathen then?” She teases playfully. She smiles and her eyes glint, reflecting the light back onto Samuel. “That’s alright Sam. Without your type we'd be out of business here, wouldn't we Patty?” They laugh and the three continue chatting, Samuel listening mostly, and offering a little about his work.
	Ms bloom gets up to grab another serving of banana pudding. “Can I get y’all anything else while I'm at the buffet?” 
	“No, I'm fine.” Sam responds, “Trying to watch my waistline.” Rose laughs and smiles at Sam kindly. She reaches out with her thin, strong hand, across the table, and softly places two middle fingers on Sam's hand. 
	“Would you do me a favor, dear?” she says, again lowering her voice softly. “My guitarist couldn't get their amp to work before the service. They had to play acoustic and no one heard it. Would you look at it for me?”
	“Uh, yeah. I mean... I don't know anything about musical equipment but I can take a look.”
	Samuel had never been up on the sanctuary chancel before. He rarely went to church as a child. Sometimes his busy parents left him at a friends house for a Saturday sleepover; His mother thought it would be good for him to go to the Sunday service, a cultural experience. Sam’s father protested. He grew up in the south in the 50's. He thought Christians were superstitious and old fashioned. After college, with his first job and first girlfriend, he looked for a rental in Greensboro. The house was modest and affordable and the landlady seemed kind. But they were rejected when she found out they weren't married. “You seem like a sweet couple. But I won't have no body living in sin, not in my house.” she said. “Come back when you get your priorities straight.”

	Samuel never thought about God growing up. He had no need. Not until the summer his father passed away. It happened suddenly, out of the blue. The family had just spent spring break at the beach. Sam's father finished up the semester and prepped for his summer research in Nepal. After 6 weeks Sam missed his dad dearly, before cellphones and video calls. Samuel remembers the morning his mother came to him, distraught and pale. He was at the end of the driveway, playing on the edge of the woods making a fort as 9-year-olds will do. She was silent at first then spoke slowly, like an ant pulling a dead moth that was too large. Neurocysticercosis is the word he remembered. The parasite developed for weeks before lodging in the brain. Samuel’s dad was high in the mountains on a bird survey when the symptoms began. Eager to finish, he realized too late that he needed to go to the hospital. 
	The young boy didn’t understand how his father’s recent presence could disintegrate so quickly, with such finality. Gone, what did that even mean? The idea of a punishing God did not occur in the moment; It developed in the following years. As a teenager he figured this cruel pointless world was made for him. He might as well wring what comfort he could, sometimes by drinking, then video games, but ultimately by walling off his own inner emotions. He focused on college and developing highly sought skills within his world of nerdy tech friends.
	On the raised stage at the center of the church, Samuel stands by the music equipment. He flips the switch, and changes outlets. No Luck. He lays the amp face down to inspect the cord, and the solid state tubes protruding from the chassis, like miniature cities encased in glass. He pulls out the fuse and hold it up, back lit, against a stained glass window. An image of Mary and flocks of animals. An agrarian scene of the ancient Levant contrasts with modern electronics. “There you are” he whispers. The sharp sliver of metal has a fault, flawed like a broken sword. The filament is seared, changed to plasma from an excessive burst of energy.
	“I found your problem Ms Walters.” Sam says, breaking the silence of the sanctuary. The stage, positioned to amplify his voice, surprises Sam as his words project out into the seats. “Your fuse is burn out, probably a surge. I can find another one with the proper resistance. I’ll give it to Ms Bloom before church next week.”
	“Thank you Sam.” Rose said. “You saved me a trip to the repair shop. And the $40 bench fee just to look at it. We are grateful, let me know what I can do for you, okay?”
	From the back of the chapel out of the shadows comes another familiar voice. “Yes, thank you Sam. You're a real life hero today.” The teenage girl with motley clothes and nappy hair emerges from the shadows, like a heron slowly stalking the shallow edge for sustenance. “Hello mother.” she says, her chin turned up savoring the words like a minnow in her gullet. 
	“Oh, hello Angel, dear.” Rose says. “This is Samuel. He's new here.” 
	“I know,” the girl, Angel insists. “Sam and I go way back. Don't we Samuel?” Rose looks at her daughter with narrow piercing eyes. “What!? Geez!” Angel says. 
	Rose bites her upper lip, glances towards the heavens, sighs and says. “You must be ready to get out of here. I'm almost done. Why don't you go wait in the car. I'll be right out.” 
	“I've been ready, mother.” Angel says impatiently. She offers her hand to Samuel who takes it in his. Her soft, delicate, long fingers, almost weightless. “Nice to meet you.” she says politely. Then adds, “You hang in there cowboy, you're in for a ride.” She turns and leaves again with the same confident flare, reserved for the naive arrogance of youth. 
	Rose looks at Sam. “Hmmm. Sorry about that. She's been a handful since she was thirteen... knows more than I ever did at her age, but she's good. Doesn't cause half the trouble I did.”

	When Sam got home that afternoon he felt exhausted. It was a month's worth of social interaction. He kicked off his shoes and went to the chair where he skipped his morning meditation. Closing his eyes, he knows the routine, a body scan starting with his head, focusing his attention down through his shoulders, his arms and torso. Breathing intentionally, he tries to focus on the physical sensations in his body and let go of his thoughts. His mind however keeps racing ahead, forgetting the breath. Now holding it instead, he’s lost within the events of the morning. He comes up with clever retorts he should have used on Angel in the kitchen. Catching his active brain, Samuel returns his attention back on his breath.  But his mind is like a pendulum.  He sees Rose, her soft skin. He wishes he could run his fingertips down her arm. He recalls the sound of her voice, it's gentle soothing cadence. With courage, he might have asked for her number. He stopps breathing again, for a moment, then inhales sharply to catch up. Focus... Now he imagines taking her to a decent restaurant, the waiter lets him sample the wine, seeking his approval before filling the glass. They are laughing together, he kisses her hand, valiantly at her doorstep, before wishing her good night. Finding his way back to his body is hopeless. He gives into the fantasy, completely. Rose is standing before him in his living room in a long white tailored linen dress. Her hair is not braided but a wild cascade of flames. She steps forward, her feet straddles his. She leans in slowly, placing her palms on his knees and touches her cheek to his. Softly she whispers in his ear, “I'm here, Sam. I see you.” 

It's late when Sam wakes up, the cat rubbing his leg eagerly. He never prepped his lunches for the week. He goes online to place an order with a delivery service. He feeds the cat, lays down on the couch turns on the news. A handsome gray haired man drones into the mundane light, "The Ag bill stalled in Congress... conservatives protest regulations on ethanol...a bombing in Kashmir..." That night Samuel dreams he is flying over his yard. Looking down Sam sees the remnants of his house, a ruins of ashes and charred timbers surrounded by lush green verdant growth. His gardens nourished by the fire.

™

To Rumi #7

I am the loose debris 
lifted by the violent sea
draped high on the beach 
for lovers to read 
a tangle of weeds with bits of wood 
and plastic beads 
strewn along and pierced 
with children’s gentle prints
you pass along picking
pieces of my shells
examining, admiring
one for your pocket 
another cast back out to sea