Then they come—
with shining smiles
and hands pressed into palms
like small bright stones.
A woman I’ve never met
says she was moved,
clasps my shoulder
to steady me against a wind
only I can feel.
A man with tired eyes
wonders how long I worked on it,
asks for a copy, wants to know
if I have his phone number.
A child lingers too—
chin tucked in his collar—
fumbling for a word
he cannot name.
Each is a kindness,
a tender benediction.
And also a test.
Praise is easy food
for the part of me
I am trying to starve.
Is God arranging stones
in my hands
to see if I will build
an altar to myself?
And these stones—
the ones on this page—
are they not an altar too?
Adam Glover teaches Latin American literature and culture at Winthrop University. This poem was written as part of his conversion process, composed the evening he delivered a baptismal talk in his local ward.
