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.
Between Stone And Stars
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