A pastor asked me how I knew what was good if I was not raised with God.

How I knew kindness if I knew not the creed.

How I knew love if I knew not Leviticus.

It made me realize he and I see holy very differently.

My gaze was not bowed down to the floor by the opalescent sunlight of a stained glass window

but guided up towards the reflections of morning glow from shimmering waters.

While I did have my own Mother Mary

her grace was teaching me to color inside the lines

and that definitely took the patience of someone divine.

My morning gospel was a one-man choir

Singing Whiskey Myers over biscuits and gravy.

And I never saw my father’s hands folded in prayer

I saw them folded over copper wire under the heat of a summer sun.

And, no, I’d never seen a man who turned water into wine

but I saw my mother make meals in minutes.

And I’m sorry I haven’t heard the wise words of Paul, Luke, and John,

only the words of wisdom of women drinking coffee on the back porch.

Apples were sweet

Rainbows were pretty

Frankincense was strong

I only knew of the teen birth

that brought me onto this Earth

and into the arms of a loving family.

No bible did reside by my bedside

only Tummy Mummy

Don’t think that just because I wasn’t raised in church

means I wasn’t raised in something Holy.