Yesterday I stood and spoke in a room that swallowed my voice. Not in the “I am going to snuff you” way to which I have become so accustomed in this life. But rather in a way that felt like “more”. A soul whisper.
Hoarse from longing.
The walls are 101-year old oak. Thirsty for wood oil and truth. Their panels surround the semi-circle like bent soldiers flanking against the onslaught from within ~ a torrent of life and God; wonder and tears. Generations worth. So heavy that they are beginning to show both their wear and their weary.
Light, and our collective vulnerability, break their formation tossing unsettled color about. Dappling the pews. Casting shapes across the chatter of dust that carries the secrets of those who came before. Despite the lead and soldering of the stained glass windows ~ gentle breezes.
Breezes of breath, of story, of hope.
And the vault, in the center, has no choice but to finally yield. To release the silence and the longing of those who knelt or stood here before us…
…for our thirteen courageous voices. Speaking the truth. Lighting both the chandeliers and the way for those who come after.
This time in color and light.