never walk alone

In the shelter of each other, we will live, we will live

(Never walk alone)

In the shelter of each other, we will live, we will live

(Your arms are all around us)


The Shelter, Jars of Clay

Closer to 2 than 1 in the morning, recapped water bottles and scraps of paper rest, strewn and sprinkled on a collection of tables, completely forgotten by the responsible attendants tucked in bed upstairs. Bite-sized chocolates circle cute theme things. Everything seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for permission, for sunrise to exist again.


This is not my world.


My mom's church ladies convened on a small campground on a slender island this weekend. Surrounded by water and spring skies for two days, they gathered in a richly neutral colored room to learn about God.


I came to hear the speaker. 


With skin like richest chocolate and a soul that crackles like fire, she holds a place in my imagination as what the voice of God would look like. Walking as quietly as she can, she still arrives like a happening of nature. And watching her makes some of the Old Testament descriptions of the divine seem almost plausible.


We were the last two in line for dinner, and I bit my lip a lot as she gathered her food. Words raced, thoughts I wanted to share as we ambled towards the few available seats. Still words raced, built, because her preaching had touched me. But what do you say to the voice of God? How do you start a conversation with the Voice of the One you've been ashamed to admit you know... for years?


In Texas, talk food. 


Starting with allergies and preferences, the conversation drifted towards what we had both chosen, and what she wished had been offered. She spoke of the vacation she'd just returned from, the first she'd taken in years.


Somehow I ate while I listened, and finally managed a deep breath. I tried to talk, but found the words formed in my throat cloying. Stuttering, I tried to share the tightness of fears and failures, how I existed scared and scarred.


She listened like I was a friend.


And somehow, at the table, the Voice became someone I could talk to, someone that got my humor. The Voice of thunderstorms and earth-moving morphed into a woman remembering a hotel in New Orleans, talking about the wonder of black-eyed peas and skillet-fried bacon.


Closer to 3 than 2, stars litter the sky, and ripple along the water. The world stretches out, more nestled here. It's curious and different, not my home.


But I have a friend here, who talks to God.
And in the shelter of each other, we will live.