I’m not much of a sailor, Jesus.
I hew toward queasiness, fearfulness, land-longing.
All distractions, I know, but persistent ones.
You met your first friends where they were,
leaping from boats, salt water stiffly drying in their hair and beards.
I remember this.
So for today, rather than trying to be a sailor,
I’m going to trust that you will meet me here, where I am,
On the dock on a towel, an unread book in one hand,
Watching the sails and ready to hear the sailors’ stories when they return.