He finally woke up.
The room was completely dark except for the playful prism pawing at his feet, advancing and retreating, the spirited rainbow daring his curious toes to wander just beyond the sheet. He was a legit, slow riser, and musing a friendly ghost was something he could do, forever, or until the sun went down. He was, without question—in no kinda rush. These were the little blessings he would preach. Finding those flecks of light in the fog: patience, magic and awe. But now wasn't the time for preaching. No sir, the bishop needed his coffee first, then he would wrestle the pen. He gave up the drink a few decades ago, but the dark roast?—not yet, and not tonight. The first sip was always the best, which inevitably inspired a heartfelt prayer of thanks, chased by gracious hands raised high in the sky. He sang nothing but sweet, heavenly praise. Amen! It was Friday and he had a sermon to write.
I first met the bishop about a year ago. A friend of mines said there was a cool after hours party on the boulevard. I was interested because I was a night owl and I liked to, mix it up, you know. When I entered—the church—which is what they called the joint, it was 2 a.m. and I had no idea what to expect. I guess I was thinking weed, beers, whatevs. But when I heard a scratchy record of Miles Davis and saw folks in comfy chairs reading books and chatting about Michelle Obama, I felt—oddly at peace. Everyone casually acknowledged me as I hugged the wall and walked toward what appeared to be a small, dimly lit stage in the corner. The glances were welcoming and I felt like I was being measured, but in a respectful way. Slowly, the poets, the photographers, the musicians—they all introduced themselves. Then this grey haired dude in a very cool black suit, I think it was vintage, with a thin paisley tie? Fierce. Anyway, he slid up to me, and with soulful eyes, asked if I wanted a cup of chamomile tea.
"Chamomile?" I questioned.
"Yes, chamomile,” he said, so smooth.
"O-kay?" I said curiously.
He smiled, and walked away. When he returned, he told me I was late. Then he handed me a cup of freshly brewed tea in a rainbow unicorn mug.
"This is extraordinary," I raved, after one sip.
"My friend sends me flowers from Santa Barbara. And sometimes sage and lavender, when she can get it."
I took another swig. "So what did I miss?"
"What do you mean?" he replied with gentleness.
"You said I was late."
"Oh, yes. I was just playing. But for real though, my sermon is at midnight, straight up, every Friday night. And you missed it, no big deal. But it's open mic now. So if you have anything you want to share with us, just walk yourself up to that little stage in the corner and tell us all about it. We're good listeners. And we love you already."
I never missed another Friday after that.
Until today. I was in a major funk and I wasn't having it. The dark passenger was kicking my teeth and I was in no mood to hear a bunch a folk talking about this, that and another thing. Bye. I was leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again—attitude. But just as the John Denver song was tweaking my brain I walked past the church. I stood and stared down that faded front door. Blueberry grigio, that's the color he called it. Puts out calming energy he said. The bishop fancied himself a painter back in the day. But hold up. Dang it smelt good. Was that some kind of French roast? I could definitely use a cup of coffee right about now. So I banged on the grigio.
The bishop was startled and nearly spilt his precious brew. "Doors open at 11 p.m. come back later please.”
I heard his muffled words. I knocked again, louder.
After a series of unlocking clicks, the door slowly opened. The bishop took a long look at me and said, "Let me get you a fresh cup of coffee. Please come in. It's wonderful to see your face." As he prepared my chalice, I instinctively put on a record by The Staple Singer, because, that’s what we did in church.
"I'm glad you came through," the bishop said. "Alas, I'm not feeling like myself today and I wanted to ask you a question."
I didn't say a word. I just looked at him. What kind of voodoo is he cooking up now?
"I was just getting ready to prepare my notes for tonight's sermon, but, I think I've been derailed. My mojo ain't right. I'm all bent out of shape, and … I could use some help. So, I'd like to ask you a favor if I could."
Now I was conflicted. This mother fucker. "Um, sure?" I said plaintively.
"Well, I was wondering," and he paused to serve me my cup of coffee, which tasted like dark chocolate and cinnamon. So good. Full on sorcery. He studied my face in silence and continued, "Oh, I'm just not feeling it today. I must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm getting old and I have no more words. I hate for you to see me like this. Truly. Perhaps … well alright, I'll just say it."
OMG, he was so dramatic. But the coffee was a miracle. Every sip a different flavor: cardamom, cherry, vanilla.
He gently pointed his finger at me and said, "You will write the sermon tonight."
He finally asked the question. But it wasn't a question at all, it was like, he simply placed his pen directly into the palm of my hand. Absolute witchcraft. We sat at the kitchen table and savored the silence, the bishop lost in his cup, the pen remembering everything he taught me. I wrote without thinking.
And then it was midnight.
I preached about our favorite subjects that evening: love, perseverance and magic. And then someone put on a record. It was Aretha Franklin doing her thing, saying a little prayer for everybody while the bishop made his rounds, charming the house with that—chamomile.