Heavenly Father

In Pollyanna’s church, the rafters
and the chandeliers quivered and shook
and rattled, the parishioners, too, reminded
by a Bible thumped of their sins,
the smallest of which equally sinful as the largest
and the punishments the same,
hell-bound, fire and brimstone,
much as my own church pounded out
a god of love meting out hell’s
eternal fury for poking my sister,
holding her doll at arms length
above my head, out of reach, her tears
falling amidst her threats of telling on me
and my rising fear, not of Mom, 
but of an eternity in hell, chained
to a fiery wall, burning and tortured,
my own toys at arms length,
just out of reach, forever, and so 
we feared Him, this Heavenly Father 
so unlike my own, quick to forgive,
slow to raise his voice or a hand,
never a belt or a switch lashed out
or an angry word spoken, no fear of him
rising up in us, shrinking back
and cowering, begging forgiveness
for transgressions innocently transgressed,
bartering with better behavior, promising reform.

So perhaps God is not like I remember Him
in those Baptist days at the Elm Street Church,
but more like my dad, quick to forgive,
patient with our humanity and imperfections,
ready to love and bring us home.