How I Felt at Church Today: The Dish and the Star.

Sometimes I feel

like my chest

is a concave dish,

curving from shoulder to shoulder.

My heart is an eight-pointed star--

the kind they show in the sky

on the night Jesus was born.

And that star,

my heart,

hovers in the middle

of the dish,

its light hitting

here and there

and reflecting back

there and here,

so that the whole brazen dish

is lit up with sharp golden light.

Light that buzzes and pings softly

as it bounces off

the sunken brass surface.

Its most distinguishing feature

is how it lasts--

on and on,

perpetuating its own glow

and buzz.

For minutes at a time.

It feels good,

but good seems

too simple a word.

It feels so bright

that it is warm.

And it feels so warm

that it's joyous.

And it feels so joyous

that it's sublime.

And it feels so sublime

that it's terrifying.

Terrifying in the way that

awe is terrifying--

reverence mixed with fear.

Fear of losing

the dish and the star.

And having

a normal chest and heart again.

But even more,

fear that,

if life can be this good,

I am going to have to be

something more

than what I am now.