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.