The Christian women who have loved me

have all sought to
pull me into the Kingdom
not by fire and brimstone
and threats of demonic retribution
for my wretched apostasy,
but by gentle suasion
and a kindness born of the
effort to follow the
Perfect Example,
however imperfectly.
I have never loved anyone
more than they, but not even
their patient ministry
has been able to put down
a doubt born of the belief
that words matter.
And when
those who heard the first
stirring,
soaring-hearted message
did die without seeing Him return
with power,
there was a sad truth there
I can't look away from.
I stand on my promontory of
charred disbelief,
and I see them beckoning to me
with the pure light of agape.
I wish I could grab the silken
life line they have thrown me,
and join them
in their golden hope
that all is forgiven, if only
one asks, and that death need
not concern us,
if one believes it has been vanquished.
But the world is still here,
and it wasn't supposed to be
any more.
I can do nothing but accept that,
however much I wish I could
know their embrace,
and however much
I would like to believe
that the end is simply
the beginning,
and that the Christian women
who have loved me will
some day greet me as a radiant group
and say, in voices brimming with
happy laughter,
"Told you so,"
in unison.