Dressed for Mending

Eight weeks of drawn curtains.
Then Sunday came knocking.

(sunday clothes)

The suit's been hanging patient
on the back of the bedroom door;
I haven't buttoned up a collar
since the flowers hit the floor.
But this morning, something whispered
in a voice that sounded like yours:
"Baby, grief can keep the pajamas —
but glory's got a dress code, sure."

So I shaved the week off slowly,
found the tie you always chose;
one arm, then the other —
that's how resurrection goes.

I put on my Sunday clothes, (clothes)
walked out the door where the church light glows.
Still broken, but I'm dressed for mending —
some healing starts with buttonholes.

Sunday clothes. (dressed for mending)
Church light glows. (still attending)

(healing starts with buttonholes)

Third pew back, our spot, still warm somehow;
Miss Ruby squeezed my hand.
The hymn book opened on its own
to the one you used to stand.
I couldn't sing the first two verses —
my throat was full of stones;
but by the chorus, something lifted,
and the choir carried my bones.

So I shaved the week off slowly,
found the tie you always chose;
one arm, then the other —
that's how resurrection goes.

I put on my Sunday clothes, (clothes)
walked out the door where the church light glows.
Still broken, but I'm dressed for mending —
some healing starts with buttonholes.

Truth is, faith isn't the absence of the ache.
It's ironing a shirt with shaking hands.
It's showing up ugly-crying in your best,
because somewhere past the parking lot,
hope keeps a seat.

Mm. (third pew back)
Mm. (our spot)

(hope keeps a seat)

I put on my Sunday clothes, (clothes)
walked out the door where the church light glows.
Still broken, but I'm dressed for mending —
some healing starts with buttonholes.

Next week I'll come early.
Somebody new might need my hand.

(sunday clothes)