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Morgan Guyton's avatar

We snuck into Gethsemane

that night to pray like teenage

hoodlums squeezing through

a locked gate, hauling our

firewood in the collapsible

wagon that made so much

noise rolling over the wooden

bridge before we got to the

deep woods where the city’s

lights had vanished and we

could build a fire that no park

ranger would discover

amidst the many layers of

rules we were breaking as

we drank forbidden tea,

asking God to show us

the new world we were

fully expecting to rise

over the horizon at

dawn like Zion being

established as the tallest

of mountains even in

the flattest of swampland

since the map was no longer

three-dimensional and time

was no longer linear; there

was only Jesus trying to

keep us awake with songs

about the wind and stars.

I wasn’t there when the cops

arrived; I said I needed

to go home to my wife.

And I wondered when I

got there how Peter felt

and if I would have followed

at a distance and shivered

from across the courtyard,

waiting to see what God

would do, unwilling to risk

going all in on a new world.

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