At nineteen, during the
Vietnam War
I was an airman serving in
sunny Spain.
I went to bars with my fellow
airmen,
pissing away money like it
were rain.
They were on a libido-driven
mission
to get themselves some
Spanish snatch.
I wasn’t able to embrace
their fervor,
waiting instead on some better
catch.
I was sick and tired of all
the drinking;
somehow there had to be a
better way.
I needed to be spending my
free time,
investing in more sober ways
to play.
When Friday came, I feigned
sickness;
the guys went without me for
a change.
I walked across base to the
bookstore,
something happened, a little strange.
I was invited by a preacher
to a social
at his home in a small pueblo
off base;
said he’s hosting a few college
kids
on summer mission while at
his place.
When I arrived, all sat in a big
circle,
opening a space and pulling
up a chair.
They shared personal stories
of Jesus,
I tho’t, “Christ, what am I doing
there?”
That’s the first time I met
him (not Jesus),
his hungry eyes followed my
every move;
the eldest son of the
missionary preacher,
flirting in ways dad would never
approve.
I was asked to help with the
youth group;
No way in hell would this guy say no.
All my buddies joked I’d
gotten religion;
the truth: a hot crush I
couldn’t let go.
He desired much more than a friendship;
struggling with lust and love
for the lord.
How sweet the season of secret
liaison;
how I miss being so intensely
adored.
At nineteen, during the
Vietnam War
I was an airman serving in
sunny Spain.
I fell in love with the son
of a preacher;
when it ended the tears fell
like rain.
~gj duerrschmidt
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