Tell Me Your Stories

"Tell me your stories," my husband says to me as I return home, temporarily, with the dog.

"I don't have any," I reply.  It was a quiet morning, just me and the Office Coordinator and Scout the dog lying zen-like in the middle of my floor.

The phone only rang once.  It was the one of the Women Who Want Food Cards, which I do not have right now.  They keep calling, though.  They would have to come a distance to get a Food Card, and I tell them that they should try churches in their own neighborhood first.  They are persistent.  Or shameless.

Otherwise, I wrote my sermon.

I took breaks for coffee, to talk to the Office Coordinator, to eat the tiniest part of a chocolate pie.

Scout would follow me down the hall each time, an easy loping gait.  She would cruise up to the Office Coordinator to get pets.  She is persistent.  Or perhaps shameless.

I read the story again about the dying young girl who taught the seminary student how to pray, her soft voice urging him when he faltered, "Keep going.  I like to hear you pray, just talking to God like that."

It heard it rain, a little, as I typed, and wrote, and thought, and prayed.

"Teach me to pray," I say, remembering the phrase.  Perhaps I am not as persistent, or shameless, as I ought to be.