Lord, we lift up those here among us whose unassuming houses in unassuming neighborhoods rattle softly – the gentle tapping of dishes in cupboards, framed photos falling from the dresser, the books shaking off the shelves – before blinding white energy pours through the windows, down the hallway, and under the threshold of their bedroom door. Be with them, Lord, as they fall frightened from their beds in their gasp for air and consciousness. Keep them safe as they float upwards towards the giant metal whale exhaling like air brakes on a big rig. And comfort them, Lord, when they wake naked, cold, and directionless in a cornfield at dawn.

We remember the few here who, while mousing for trout, find themselves in extreme foreign stillness. The river, every cedar lining the cut bank, the bottle of Fireball, all devoid of energy and motionless like some industrial biology paused the woods. And then a beam of light breaks the suspension, birds scream, fish rise violently, some flash of an operating room. Bless them when they return to their truck beds, their waders bone dry, their skin sagging, their eyebrows shaved off. Remind them not to tell their loved ones, lest they be forbidden to fish again.

Prepare the abductees to face public ridicule, shaming, and disbelief. Keep them from drinking mightily. Assure them probing does not have to be all that bad. Shelter those standing slack jawed in awe watching celestial lights hanging in the sky. Quiet the everlasting doubts. You are King of Questions. You are the Ultimate Believer.





© Rob Kenagy