Poor Service

Around me are soft words and candle lights. I'm out of pitch; a reluctant bass in a sea of carefree sopranos. Only women are singing, and only some of them. I can't find the key. But I'm not tone deaf. I can hear exactly how far off I am. I'm just not talented enough to find good harmony. It's the story of my life. It's also one more reason I've never found comfort within these walls.

Everywhere people are worshiping. I just sing along. The hundreds seem to know each other. They probably do, but behind their candles they're just nondescript faces to my eyes. There are angels in the crowd, but they cannot find me. The rest offer only blank stares of polite recognition. My spirit is alone.

I don't think I belong here. I know I'm wanted here, but it's not the same. I'm supposed to be making a connection. I'm really just watching the clock. Faith has never found me, at least, not in the form in which I was told to expect it. And I tried hard to believe. Very hard. For years, I bent my mind as far in favor as it would go. It worked, briefly. Then the strain was too much, and soon other thoughts slipped in. Faith, of a different kind, endures. But that battle has too many words. Years have past since, and I'm no longer the person I tried so hard to be. So let the celebration continue. I won't interrupt.

Find what peace you can tonight. Christmas is here, and love is waiting. And that, I think, is a miracle sufficient to last the evening.