Don’t trip over the firetruck
in the shower, the one waiting
beside the soap. It is set to be
healed in the morning by a
mini-mechanic who is still
sleeping in her toddler bed.
She will soon rise and give it a
proper tune-up, not with plastic
tools, but with her doctor’s kit,
which is missing an otoscope,
but includes a rogue flashlight.
Do not trip over the truck’s
cousin toys, left rolling on the
floor, perched by the basement
door, arranged in perfect
fighting position. Do not curse,
as though they were the enemy.
They are the heroes in our story;
the block-scattered heartbeat that
you strained to hear all those times
when there was only silence on the
other end of the doctor’s doppler.
The dinosaur stickers that will not
come off the hardwood floor are
actually small, snarled-toothed saints.
They pray for you.
Like you prayed for them.
Do not trip over joy,
which is often hiding behind
the chaos that exasperates us.
You might break your neck one
day, but at least you will die happy.
Originally published in the spring 2025 Mere Orthodoxy print journal. To become a member and receive future issues, join today.
Rachel Welcher
Rachel Joy Welcher is an author, poet, and acquisitions editor at Baker Books.
