Between Stone And Stars

Walking down Summit Avenue, I saw the smooth stones and Romanesque arch of St. Luke's Church, long ago my family's parish. Inside a solitary parishioner knelt in the last pew, clutching his rosary, reciting 'Hail Marys' in a monotone. My appearance hushed his prayer. Then and there total silence always poised within pale brown stones spread evenly through the spacious hall. I walked along aisles of a former grace, retraced the steps of grade school pageants, and recalled the child's ready faith. This is the sacred place where I first ate divinity disguised as human food, first heard God's truth wrapped in human words. Once angels' flight stopped here, and saints lived inside the stone. I gazed above at giant disciples drawn in bold black lines, splashed with vibrant colors. Their quiet lives of daily love had taught my inexperienced soul not every hurt needs a martyr's wound. Sometimes suffering instructs survival, merely settles in a person's heart. I walked on with remembered reverence, stood before a star-crowned marble altar. From the dome an immense purple-robed Jesus sits on a throne of gold and clouds. Blood flows from his side to nourish sheep who drink from its red river. His right hand rises majestically to spin stars out of their orbits. I left the church that afternoon with this simple life-long hope: someday I want to worship like a penitent beneath the radiant dome. Between stone and stars I will be just a zealous man who loves silence praying in an empty catholic church. And this old man will know from years of quiet prayer how it hurts is how it heals.