drove through the post office parking lot this morning and your face came up
I remembered you died last year of cancer and they cleared out your office

when I was young you taught sunday school and had a lot of little children with half brown skin, most of their names starting with J
your wife was beautiful

J had sad eyes and a crooked back and I remember talk of surgeries
and wheelchairs and I hope your two sons, j and j, have found their way
I saw J on the bus a lot a few years back and wondered if you two still talked
I haven't see your ex-wife in years but I say J once at Celebration on the Grand
in a canvas booth dressed for work

I remember you getting on your knees in the small classroom down the hall on the right at Reformed Baptist - to show us what repentance looked like
and since then you have showed me differently, but not with words
your life has shown me God's large arms, and His grace

Mom said a few years after we left the church you and your wife had separated and she saw you in your post office office and your walls held porn and it was awkward for her to stand there and talk to you wondering how you felt knowing they were staring at you from the walls like an awkward elephant in the room

it took your death bed to bring you back and you laid there without enough strength to climb onto your knees but God heard your words, the words that closed the gap between the two of you and I am sure Jesus said, today, you will see me in paradise.