Dancing In The Pulpit

What would have happened if the Minister,

had danced,

in the pulpit.

And sang a happy song, of real joy.

I wonder if creativity had been mentioned

instead of fear.

How I could move my small body, freely,

instead of being pinned to a pew.

And what of sin?

Later in life I learn it means to ‘miss the mark’

How soft would that have been to hear then,

freedom to gently find another way.

And what happened when my parents raised their voices,

like His on a Sunday,

furious at each other.

How come they could sit so still

in that pew,

pretending.

All together

nothing knitted.

How did my small life,

fit into this map,

given to me with such conviction.

My father,

hungover again,

sullen,

quiet,

a volcano,

waiting.

My mother’s extreme sadness.

My heart wept inside for her worry,

I’d go down on my hands and knees,

praying for an answer,

as I was taught.

My country,

at war.

Or was it my country?

Yes, dancing in the pulpit,

That could have been a doorway to a different life.

(23rd May 2026 - Saturday morning reflections of my early life growing up in The Troubles in Northern Ireland).