It is 4:30 a.m., I am dreaming. I am stepping over the two-inch elevation in the concrete sidewalk in front of the church, it doesn’t qualify as a step, it’s a flaw. I need to get that fixed, I utter, again, letting the guilt rise in me that some elderly person will trip over that someday, I just know it. Then I glance at the railing, knocked out of its base and made wobbly by a truck backing in to load supplies for a birthday party, it was Hispanic, a very large party, and yes, there was lots of Corona, and no, Methodists do not allow alcohol on the premises, but even though the clause in the building usage permit that says “no alcohol on the premises” was translated into Spanish, somehow, it was not comprehended; so the railing was busted and it’s been two years and no one has really noticed, there are just too many other things to fix. Just as this elderly person falls, they will grab for the railing to secure themselves, I think, and it won’t hold them. They will be reading those two cornerstones to the left as they walk along, 1889/1969, placards to the banner years, and be thinking something fond like, “I was baptized in this church,” and then they will fall. I apologize in advance to those who are injured upon attempting to enter this church, for vanishing feelings of fondness, I apologize that despite my best efforts and my youngest, most energetic years, I cannot seem to make the entrance stable.
As usual, there are McDonald’s styrofoam cups lining the steps by the front doors, wadded up toilet paper, wet from last night’s rain, an empty liquor bottle. I step over the flaw, go get plastic gloves and remove the debris for another day (sometimes I walk past it, just being honest here, and it is secretly removed by someone else, this is grace.)… | READ THE FULL POST comment, and share on my website SherryCothran.com