When God called when I was 13, I said,
“Oh, please, not me, not now … maybe later.”

When the civil rights movement called me, I said,
“I wish I could, but I’ve got this job … maybe later.”

When the peace movement called me, I said,
“I would but my husband’s a Marine.
He might get in trouble … maybe later.”

After that, the calls came only as faint whisperings
which I brushed away as mere imaginings.
But, sometimes, the leaves of a tree would rustle
In just a certain way and my heart would lurch
As I looked for the voice behind the whispers.

So, in my middle years, when Spirit said,
“Write your story,” I did ask, “What story?
In my life there are no great deeds,
No overcoming of horrendous odds.
I am no saintly role model for life.”

“I’m just an average woman,” I continued,
“Trying to find meaning in an average life.
Trying to clear my path of the briars and brambles
Tangled from years of neglect of spirit and self.”
But, Spirit only said again, “Write your story.”

And I knew better than to say, “maybe later.”