being of faith

i hear,
my young cello playing son
parents,
who finally remember directions to Safeway,
daughter whose singing never stops
dead friend’s soft-spoken wife, a master at making apple pies,
husband who loves funny shows
(i still wonder why he always wants something to make him laugh)
sick aunt who waits to be buried in a quiet spot
in Southern California, where she was born –
will all be exhibits
and held as a proof
for the way we pray

i hear
my faith, does not measure up,
but will be accounted for –
and here i was,
for years and years thinking I had none
little did I know,
it only needs one, against many,
to register my faith as evidence
of an uncommitted crime