Un-Raptured

Saturday, May 21st, 2011
6:42 p.m.


Jordan stands at the gas pump in sunglasses and skinny black jeans, cell phone to her ear.


Dad:  "Hello?"


Jordan:  "Hey Pops, just calling to see if you'd been raptured yet."


Dad (laughing):  "Not yet!"


It isn't like the time she was fourteen and truly thought he'd been raptured since he wasn't in the basement on his computer.  She isn't lying on her green comforter with her Bible or anything this time.  She doesn't really believe those billboards in fiery reds and oranges telling her to "cry mightily unto God," because...she doesn't believe in God like that any more.  But, in any case, her father would be the first one she would expect to be gone in a sudden spiritual occurrence, his smudged DU cap atop a pile of jeans and a button-up shirt, his white socks still inside his sandals, all dropped mid-stride in his daily walk around the lake.


Not yet, Dad, not yet.  More people to connect with first.  More time to meditate in Daniel's big green chair.

per·am·bu·late/pəˈrambyəˌlāt/Verb

1. Walk or travel through or around (a place or area), esp. for pleasure and in a leisurely way.

The air around me feels like nothing, no breeze, no pressure, no hint of rain.  Although the temperature commits neither to hot nor cold, the tips of my fingers hang chill and heavy near my thighs.  The barest momentum lifts one leg and then the other, not even disturbing my shoulders, held tall and straight.  This is the first time in years that the soles of my feet, the pads of my toes, the weight of my heels sense the earth as solid and warm beneath them, the first time my legs are solid with trust, my ribs expanded to hold the breath of potential, the single crease between my brows smooth with sweet acceptance.

This is my time.

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