by Judith C Evans

Created on: November 22, 2009

Phoenix, mid-August

Newly broke, brand new in town:

Maybe I'll find work here,

Or at least look around.

My green hatchback, ten years old,

Sputters into a church lot.

"Empty," smirks the gas gauge.

I pray that I'm not caught.

Am I stranded? My heart panics.

One more try: I turn the key.

Did those painters seem to notice?

I pray no one will see.

"May I help you?" one man asks,

Paintbrush still in hand.

"I'm the pastor. Are you stranded?"

I'll never understand

How God could hear my prayers

That I'd remain unseen

Yet know deep in His heart

What my prayers really mean.

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