Sunday School

Photograph: Sharron R. McMillan

Photograph: Sharron R. McMillan

It’s hard for me to picture the God you speak about
while sitting in these dark, cave-like rooms,
where the only light is a dusty 40 watt one
hanging like a tired streamer from the ceiling.

Were I the Sunday School teacher for one Sunday morning,
I’d gather up these pale, unhappy little creatures,
take them by the hand and lead them outside
into sunshine and fresh air.

I’d run with them through lush green grass
of empty field,
right across the road from you,
until their cheeks glowed with roses.

We’d lie on our stomachs
on the edge of a hard cold rock,
our faces in the crisp, icy water of the creek
running past your door.

We’d pick hands full of golden dandelion,
pure white pearly everlasting,
emerald salal and wild orchids
then sit in the centre of this beautiful bouquet

feeding on wild salmon berries,
tiny sweet strawberries
growing at our feet,
quench our thirst with clear fresh water.

I’d hug each one of them,
kiss each button nose
and tell them
“Did you know, the same God who made all of this, loves you.”

© 1978 Sharron R. McMillan

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