I once heard Paul Escamilla give a sermon
in which he talked about a family cemetery in the Southwest borderlands.
It was so rich that I felt I was walking the grounds with him,
lingering over memories and sensing a deeper Spirit,
one that binds us together across boundaries of time and space.
Yesterday I met Paul in the hallway off the concourse,
heavy with the weight of decisions and divides.
I hadn’t known I needed to see him.
We talked about teaching and the possibilities of doing something new.
I hadn’t known I needed to talk with him.
But we met
and the warmth of that cemetery of beloved memory came rushing back
along with just a hint of Spirit
blowing across the wide-open plains.