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Reading Time: 2minutes
[todaysdate]
By Eric Blauer
Art: by Eric Blauer, Colored Charcoal
Somehow I became your pastor.
But not in the typical way people claim a person as theirs,
but in an off handed, distant way.
Kind of like a young boy nurses a crush on the star cheerleader.
We simply lived in the same streets, walked the same sidewalk,
breathed the same exhaust, shared the same songs,
heard the same words and watched the bus come and go.
I reached out to you like a kid tries to rescue a soaked cat;
more scratches than purring,
pulling on the tail in some delirium of compassion.
Your indifference didn’t fit my ideal of salvation,
maybe you didn’t need me.
You wouldn’t let me be a hero.
I couldn’t play my messiah card,
none of my evangelistic spells seemed to work on you.
No Jedi mind tricks here, sometimes you’d just walk away mid-sentence.
Your house scarred me, like someone vomiting,
I didn’t want any of it on me, but I didn’t want you sick either.
You caught me in my own squeamishness and quirkiness,
it’s hard to be a surgeon if it involves being that close.
I knew you were dying, what is someone to do with someone who doesn’t want to live?
How do you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?
How can you be a knight in shining armor, when the damsel gives you the finger?
You wouldn’t let me be the hero.
I saw the trucks coming, the lights shining, the sirens announcing your departure.
I reluctantly came to watch them carry you out…naked, dirty and broken,
they ignored me…just like you did.
In the end, I couldn’t help you the way I thought I was supposed too.
I just watched them as they tried not to look at you.
Covering you with a flimsy blue paper blanket,
hauled off to nowhere, nobody to call and say you were leaving.
Nobody crying, just paid employees following you to the hospital.
I went back to mowing the weeds, picking up the garbage;
and in the end, in the mass of refuse, I was left wondering it any of it really mattered to anyone else.
Even still, I am glad the crabgrass is smaller;
the discarded carts are aligned neatly in a row and the trash is a little less littered.
But most of all I am hopeful that at least one old dead man, knows that I remember his name.
I am Frederick Christian Blauer IV, but I go by Eric, it sounds less like a megalomaniac but still hints at my Scandinavian destiny of coastal conquest and ultimate rule. I have accumulated a fair number of titles: son, brother, husband, father, pastor, writer, artist and a few other more colorful titles by my fanged fans. I am a lover of story be it heard, read or watched in all beauty, gory or glory. I write and speak as an exorcist or poltergeist, splashing holy water, spilling wine and breaking bread between the apocalypse and a sleeping baby. I am possessed by too many words and they get driven out like wild pigs and into the waters of my blog at www.fcb4.tumblr.com. I work as a pastor at Jacob's Well Church (www.jacobswellspokane.com) across the tracks on 'that' side of town. I follow Christ in East Central Spokane among saints, sinners, angels, demons, crime, condoms, chaos, beauty, goodness and powerful weakness. I have more questions than answers, grey hairs than brown, fat than muscle, fire than fireplace and experience more love from my wife, family and friends than a man should be blessed with in one lifetime.
“Blessed are those that mourn.”
Tears. I think I could have been like either of you. Compassion saved me: I wasn’t hurt enough.
Thanks for reading Tom.