No one knew my secret before today.
I sat at the counter
Ate eggs over-medium (with pepper)
Hid behind a magazine
And under a baseball cap.
The cook fried bacon.
The waitress brewed coffee.
Lost in the ritual of breakfast
Where jukebox blues sang over my text alert
I was simply a diner
Like the guy next to me.
He asked what I did for a living
And I almost lied
But the bluesman said something
About Jesus' crying
And so I chose the truth
Which is supposed to set you free.
I am a minister.
I braced for the typical response to my call:
A theological question about a good God
Working in a bad world
A prayer request
A story of hurt and redemption.
I wish I could go to church.
But I work every Sunday.
From our bar-stooled pews
We listened to the anthem:
Clatter of fork on plate
Beeping of stove timer
Tear of ticket from pad
The longing song of the bluesman.
We sat side by side exposed:
Confessing who we were
Admitting our longings
And like incense the smells of syrup and burned toast
Drew us beyond ourselves
Into a conversation with God and about God
And I wondered why we
Priesthood of believers try so hard to hide
Who we really are.