Whisper Bench

Walking east capitol street to Eliza’s house
We pass a stone bench, old, smooth
But not ornate, in perfect semicircular fashion.
Eliza says, “come and I’ll show
You a secret.”

I press my ear to the cold stone at the far end
And she whispers softly into the other side
Can you hear me?
Yes I can hear you!
Sounds flung around the rim of the bench
Like the sweet song of a finger around a glass.

We call it the whisper bench
Because it holds our quiet voices,
And offers them to whoever has an ear to hear.

Today I knelt facing my pew
Face buried in ancient wood, smooth
And semicircular. I whispered
Most merciful God
We confess that we have sinned against you…
Yes, I can hear you.
And I was twelve again when the voice whispered back to me
Clear and real, though just as invisible.
A small gift running along the grooves of a wooden bench.

Eliza, if you pass our whisper bench today,
Will you pause and listen
To the God who speaks?