The Old Park Bench
I passed him once—
a figure alone
on a weathered bench,
its wood worn smooth
by time and tears.
He sat beneath a tree
that bowed not from age,
but as if it were practicing humility.
Casting a shadow of comfort and trust.
His eyes—soft as moonlight.
His hands—still as waiting.
Time paused.
A breeze rolled in,
light and slow,
and for a second,
I didn’t feel the need to rush
He smiled
like someone expecting me,
yet asking nothing.
No demands.
Only room—
and rest.
So I sat.
He spoke no words,
but silence itself leaned in.
It had a heartbeat,
and I— I was learning to listen.
I spoke of small things—
weather, work,
my love for the forgotten 90s.
Then deeper currents surfaced—
fears, longings,
the ghosts of regrets,
and blessings I had never
bothered to count.
He never interrupted.
Never corrected.
Only stayed—
present,
like mercy wrapped in skin.
All the while,
a thought whispered low:
He knows me.
Not in pieces—
in wholeness.
As one who’s walked
every crooked path
and still calls it beautiful.
I told him I doubted.
That I felt small.
That prayer,
some days,
felt like shouting into fog.
Still,
he smiled.
And I went on—
The more I unraveled,
the lighter I felt.
Like unpacking
a life I’d left buried,
finding treasure
hidden beneath
years of ache and distress.
A breath escaped—
deep and clean.
And I saw it:
I hadn’t just recited my life.
I had relived it—
bathed in memory,
washed in grace.
It felt like…
prayer.
When I turned
to thank him,
only the bench remained.
Empty.
The breeze—
soft, soothing—
brushed my face.
And somewhere inside it,
a whisper:
“Maybe all He ever wanted…
was your heart.”
I rose,
chills found their
way to the surface
of my skin.
Then wondered—
Had I just spent the afternoon
talking to…Him?
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A thoughtful faith-journey! I especially like “That prayer,/some days/felt like shouting into fog.”