The way of all flesh

As the sun rose, I drove twenty-seven miles to my office at the little church in the Cajun swamps. Even though visitors to the office were rare, I showed up on time each day. Determined on my journey, I felt that familiar wave as I crossed the bayou. I eased my car to the gravelly side of the road. I stood, stretched. Breathed deeply. The nausea didn’t pass, so I opened up the passenger’s door, the back door, and sat in the front seat without the steering wheel. I closed my eyes and breathed some more. The doors and the passenger’s seat were part of my privacy rituals. I didn’t look big and the town was small, so I didn’t want the people passing by to talk about how the Presbyterian pastor must have been hung over. I wretched.

I cursed the heat and the long drive as I closed the doors and got settled back behind the wheel. Then I listened to my body. What did I need? What did I crave? What was I longing for?

I had never been intimate with my peculiar flesh, even with its close proximity. I had learned to ignore it. We had not been friends. I certainly had never wanted to hear its story.