Young Priest at Sacrament Table

He’s tall.
He’s boldly sure of all
His sixteen years.
He seeks his crowd,
Appears to have no care.
But now,
Before the congregation
Of the Church,
He kneels—alone,
And offers humble prayer.

[illustration] Illustrated by Preston Heiselt

My Teacher

Youth and age together
came to our house every month—
High priest still with cloudless
skies in his vision.
(He always gave the message.)
He rode a motorcycle once.
He told us.
The young one didn’t talk much
for a teacher.
Funny name for a teenager.
Aren’t they still learning?
But sometimes he shoveled
our walks.
Or helped Mom mow the lawn
after Dad was gone.
He always bounced a ball with us.
And hugged us when we sat
next to him on the couch.
And when he talked, I listened.

The Deacon

Gently juggling your way
Through choir seats,
Careful not to step
On toes
Or spill the tray,
You tiptoe through
The rows and peek
This way
Through horned-rim glasses,
Crooked tie and
Smile.
You offer me such
Godly goods
And spiritual food
And walk away
Never realizing
What you’ve done for me
This Sabbath day.