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Last week at the lake as I changed into my bathing suit,
sounds came from the bushes by the side. Big, brown men
rose out of the water to catch trembling women, who fell
back against their bodies, then were led up steps
to others who wrapped them in heavy arms
and wide towels.
The strumming grew louder. Praise and Glory they sang,
swaying in prayer. We’re from Honolulu, said a man
whose skin was browner than mine ever gets in the
solid heat of summer. We are here to praise the Lord,
tell him of our love. This is God’s land, this place is Holy.
God bless sister, he hummed and
raised a hand so wide I wanted to reach up,
but moved, instead, into the cold water.
Psalms followed me back and forth as I piled
one length over the other. Each time I raised my head
Praise and Heaven came over me. Each time
I finished a length, I said -- There is a God.
The fat, bronzed folks from Honolulu brought the spirit
of another place with them.
Don’t think we’ll come again, said the big man. Your music
is wonderful to swim to, I said. Israel’s too dangerous, he said
and shook his head. My third visit now. I’m afraid
it’s the last. For some its their first time and they’re scared.
Baptism doesn’t work when you’re afraid.
You’ve got to be open for the Lord,
joyful in your heart.
Voices rose round me in glory of God’s children. The big man
picked up a drum as the last of the sisters stepped out
of the water. The people of Honolulu are afraid of
what we live with every day.
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