By Sara Malott
She sits on the cushioned church pew
staring out the window.
She doesn’t quite know
what she’s looking for,
but she won’t find it here.
Help her,
hold her hand
and tell her change is coming.
She doesn’t need Jesus;
she needs something she can see.
We used to exchange baseball cards
and friendship bracelets.
Now, we are trading pictures
of worlds we wish we were a part of
and almost-real memories.
Someone told Church girl
her friend just bought a one-way ticket
out of this world.
If the big man couldn’t save her,
can he save anybody else?
I’m asking to go back to when
the only distance that mattered
was how far I could ride my bike.
I’m asking to go back to when
scars could only be accidental.
We try to open our ears
and let in everything we’ve tried so hard
to push away.
It’s hard to tell the difference between noise and advice
and the difference between advice and unanswered what-ifs.
They are praying for peace.
Praying for health, love, and prosperity.
But when it comes to our sons and daughters,
struggling to make it to morning,
everyone forgets how to fold their hands and speak.
When we close our eyes and close our minds,
nothing will ever change,
the stones stay unturned,
and the flower remains untouched
when the child doesn’t come out to play.
They ask how any young child
might know enough
to want to live amongst the stars.
“She was just a teenager,” They say,
“She hadn’t seen the world yet.”
They don’t understand, and it makes them angry.
But they should be thankful.
You see, it is a much simpler life
when you don’t understand
why anybody would want to give it up.
But Church girl, they need to understand
and you are going to be the teacher.
They’ll listen to you, honey.
You’re an insider.
And you’re the last chance we’ve got.
So now I say to you Church Girl,
shatter the stained glass panes.
You can have my hand to hold,
but you can’t change a thing
if they never hear your voice.
Post Script Magazine. 