Grace World

On some Sunday mornings

my dad would get up early

put on his uniform

and drive to a local church

To direct traffic

And on some Saturday mornings

my dad would get up early

put on his uniform,

and drive to our synagogue

Not to pray

But to stand guard

Sometimes I’d leave services in the middle

To watch him

I saw how his shoulders would tighten

When a stranger passed

When a new car pulled into the parking lot

And then release when they turned around or drove away

The church was called GraceWorld.

They were so lucky to live in that world -

The good grace of only having to worry about fender benders,

of a clogged path of cars on the way out

None of that Grace for our synagogue

Instead, a world of carefully locked entrances

A Sacred fortress

“It could happen here” thought, but never said

It never did -

not to me, not there

Is that all the Grace I can hope for?