Door to Door

God bless the missionary at my door
in his polyester suit of powder blue
over a crisp white tee. What vintage store
yielded this treasure? “Hi, there, ma’am.  Do you
know how to get to heaven? Just believe.”
He stands there awkwardly, so tall and lean,
to speak a faith that’s never had to grieve—
he couldn’t be a day over nineteen.
The Gospel in his pocket duct-tape-bound,
he flips through it to read me passages—
so well-rehearsed—to show the hope he’s found.
The braces on his teeth shine out through this.
Yes, I believe, I tell him, but I know
the myriad failures of my little faith,
how far I’ve come, and yet how far to go,
the trepidation when I think of death.
He is so sure, but when I reach that door
and try convincing Peter, all I’ll have
is tattered hopes, stained robes, and nothing more—
that’s all this eager, earnest young man has.
God, bless all pilgrims, old or so, so young,
and make a way from here to heaven’s gate;
put good words in each heart and on each tongue;
and take us in, even if the hour is late.