In this church, I could tell Mr. Hall was more relaxed. His body wasn't so stiff, he was melding in the pew. He sang a bit louder and clearer. Then, half way through, he reached over and nuzzled my hand with his.
I felt better too. It was smaller. The color pallet was warmer; more browns and reds. They also had a orchestra of sorts. The bell ringers wore black gloves. They had an electric acoustic guitar player. A baby grand was manned by an earnest soprano. Music was stirring my sleepy heart.
As I was sitting there, listening, I wondered about everyone in the room. I mean, here we all sat; in three sets of pews. Each one of us, saying the prayers and singing the songs. We invoked the universal and mighty, all by declaring the most personal. But, does everyone feel the spirit? The whole lot of us?
Or is it just me?
Then there was the sermon about light. About how God is light. How in times of need, when everything is crashing around us, we need to get back to the building blocks of faith. To rebuild we need to go to the light and the feeling of God's love. And all my millions of thoughts came to a screeching halt.
It was during communion. I was waiting my turn to rise and eat the wafer. I found myself blinking back sticky wicket tears. I tugged the sleeve of my green cardigan over the palm of my hand and dabbed my tears with it. Mr. Hall took notice and smiled. I smiled. And though the tears were dainty, they carried a ton. I tend to forget that my job is hard. I tend to forget that everyday people come to my office and unearth pain for me to take. I tend to take it on, like it's mine to fix. I tend to think I'm in charge of things. As a result, I've been shutting off to my patients lately.
Not listening as much. Not caring as much. Getting shorter and apathetic.
But here, in the pew, I was letting go. My pain was leaving and light was entering. I was so moved. So comforted. Then it was my turn to rise. I took the wafer and the wine.
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