Household of Faith

From where we sat on the fourth pew 
the three square windows looked like cubes 
of shimmery gold 
vertically stacked 
like a floating crate 
leaking light through the slats. 
In seasons, from either side of the podium, 
opaque glass filtered the grainy light 
that swathed the pulpit 
or held at bay the dusky darkness. 

From the fourth pew, I focused between the windows
on speakers and choristers and dark-suited men. 
I knew them all 
my brothers 
my sisters 
as they blessed their babies and baptized their children,
buried their dead and remembered the body and the blood.
Listening, I learned of water turned to wine, 
of loaves and fishes 
and glass, darkly. 
I waited for the organ pipes to breathe 
before each chord.

I often sat beside my father 
who rested his arm lightly on the bench behind me
as I imagined a suitor might. 
I felt his breathing 
sometimes heavy and deep 
and heard his singing voice 
resonate against me. 
Down the pew sat the rest of the family 
and Grandma with her purse full of candies
and behind us the familiar basses and sopranos
and children crawling underfoot after their toys.
We sat 
Sunday after Sunday 
in the muted light of the windows 
before going home where Mom pulled from the oven
a roast with vegetables 
that steamed the kitchen panes.