Can You Get it?

...
I waited, a thin girl with braces, in an awkward communion dress, hands up asking for the wafer.

Confirmation comes at 12, eighth grade, when knees are knobby, teeth too big for the face and unlikely people end up at the party.

The confirmation memorization: prayers mostly, and a book about Jesus as a boy my age. He seemed so real; familiar, comfortable. Maybe he was more intelligent, coordinated and handsome than I, but his 12 year old grace and sensual kindness left me included, understood. He stood dusty, holding wood for his father. Here, hold this. Hold it until it's needed.

I would do it. I'd wait, head covered, in dust colored homemade cloth, smoothed by numerous days in hot sun, while red, fine sand sifted between my toes. Through the windy dust I'd hold the hammer, waiting for the strong arm reaching back. I'd wait helpfully as if needed.

That gray-blue book at confirmation lessons, just right to fit into two adolescent hands, included line ink illustrations, showing the boy I wanted to be. But this book was only a story. Made up to fill in the unknown growing up time of my Lord. After nativity we find him speaking in the temple like an elder, upsetting the balance. Skeptical adults could not fault him because of his wisdom.

I lost that boy. Party sounds drowned out the memorized prayer and friendship. The quiet elegance of church began to lose it's hold on me, the beauty, the carving and silver, dimmed. I sank into recognized hypocrisy on the drive home.
Turn around, girl! This is behind you now, beauty ahead. Your crippled back got stuck looking back. Turn around and see the dusty boy, an adult now like you. Still impossibly waiting and understanding. Giving you this life you almost missed. Turn your crooked back around, uncomfortable as it might be, face into the dusty storm and see hope.

Leave the family and cleave to your beloved.

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