His Job

It squeaked each time it rocked, as if it needed a small squirt of WD, the church had given him this chair to sit within embroidered cushions and contemplate, that was the key. These days it seemed that all the weight of human misery had somehow dropped onto his shoulders, to be dealt deciding blows, and he had drawn from inner strengths the wherewithall, to be His adjutant on earth. Yet this was different now, the message came out of the blue from distant shores, a cry it was, was there no man who would and could be there to spell it out, the word of God, for those who sin? There was a soccer game to go and cheer the lads, the sermon for next Sunday, in anticipation, the dinner to make peace with family, and this would be a test, that much he knew, of who he was, and what he wished to be for all. He took the can of lubricant and sprayed the chair, the opportunity belied a silence of the mind, there was no conflict of the soul, nor would his God expect convention and convenience, dear to man make its appearance now to sift through what was true. A human being, though not known to be a friend or one who'd dropp his silver coins and would confess in foreign lands, perhaps a stranger to his God, enduring overwhelmingly, the bitter pains of grief, there was no wavering, no sudden consultation, he stood in awe and felt the feeble hand's relief.