“Another Bloody Church…” she joked in chide and tease of self and memory of a past, but this one not in foreign place but land and soil of her home.
One point in time, the church had stood in immanence over city. Now, height and site were inverted—a hole in the sky and city line where, in seeking of the open space, Heaven appeared—or something nearly to—in beauty and body of stone and glass.
Intricate and ornate of an Old World beauty—archaic and soulful—amidst a modern featureless and facelessness where size alone was measure of status and grandeur.
Irreligious, she was strangely moved—drawn in way of heart-attraction toward another spirit-known and recognized as innately True and Good.
Spires, arches, detail of every hand-carved stone, each cut and lay of stained glass piece—it there was character and beauty man and world no longer made, at least not in world and life she knew.
Strange sense—Wonder and Awe—of spirit, not body and mind; though never before, in way right then, she desired to be part—if such makes sense at all: to add her Beauty, one small piece, into and grandeur of the Church; one small peace, beauty and spirit, whose addition makes more full and complete the wondrous of the ornate whole.
From height of spires, hole in sky framed in skyline’s rise around, she looked low to child asleep in stroller’s roll. Remembrance of a premonition, angel-message spoken once through medium, messenger, means and way of an eternal ancient-old. Would it it be she, child in lie and sleep right then, that led her to believe?
