If the washing doesnt get you the rinsing will

Alone I sat on the hard wood pew,
back row and out of notice
from the occasional passing
of widowed women dressed in black,
head shawled, grasping pearled beads.

Dimly lit silence,
under cathedral ceilings
hid no angels or cherubs,
just shadows cast from
incense stained pains.

Memory failed me
of childhood mantras,
rituals meant to meet protocol
so as to to be granted an audience
containing desperate petitions of help.

Slowly a man approached,
humbly he sat down next to me.
Expressionless and serene
he watched and waited,
for he was familiar with sinners.

Does He ever answer you?
I asked with my head still bent low.
It depends on the question my son
he replied softly, and if it is of pure intent.

Does he care if I am a wretched soul,
and have nothing to give in return?
Smiling he stood and motioned to follow him,
past stations worn well by the knees
of hopelessness and tears.

He lead me to a door that
had no lock, no manner of restraint
for those who wished to past thru it.
There we stood, together,
in the sun light from above.

Turning his gaze to a clothes line,
filled with white robes drying
in the gentle breeze and then
to the river that ran slowly yet surely,
he stopped and looked at me.

He said If the washing doesnt get you
the rinsing will.