Morning Glory

The crisp notes of a bell shook the dusty rafters. Some birds startled by this morning’s calamity starred up from the beams in fright, flying out an open window. And from far above the red and purple glass of the window shined outlining a wooden cross. The floor was filled with two straight rows of pews, yet only a dozen people sat there. The flickering of candles cast shadows on their faces as they stood, their heads bowed in prayer. The click of the Parson’s staff echoed as he walked down the isle: as he walked towards the altar.

As the parson reached the alter the entire hall fell silent. He bowed their heads as they did and let his lips form the familiar words of prayer. Wordlessly he prayed. The wooden cross loomed far above. Its form was marked out in the dim haze of candle fire; its wooden body seemed to writhe in shadows as the candles flickered beneath it. A muted cough was the only sound that broke this silence, and the world was frozen in a divine tableau.

The sun broke out the chains of far flung hills and it’s light shattered the penetrating darkness of filled with candlelight. The parish’s once shadowy faces were filled with a new pure light shining in from the windows above that paled their visages in a uniform radiance. The image of a cross was projected from the window above. A multicolored halo of pale red and purple girded the black form. Each of the parishioners looked up to the Parson in unison. The Parson let his gaze wander over the dozen people standing between the wooden pews, raised his arms, and called out with a voice that resounted more vigorously then the sounding of the bell: “Let us pray.”