What I love about (a New Providence) Sunday

Creak of the solid door

Smells like wood and

Hundred-year-old dreams.

Scarred railings

holding the hands

of each generation

propelling upward

like a steeple in the sun’s rays—

regal and reaching.

There’s a hum in the hive.

The bees start to arrive,

sharing the collective

nectar of their lives.

To the providential land

they infuse golden honey.

A kind word here.

A belly-laugh there.

The tinkling of bangles

and keys as they jangle,

a backbeat to the squeals

of the coming generation.

They produce a twinkling in eyes

that have looked on and seen so much.

In the quiet prayers

of a hushed room;

when the pews groan

they sigh the hopes

of a founding generation

who prayed this space,

this faith—

would outlast them.

And the organ warms

to a sweet, sweet sound

and the glory of the Lord is found.

It streams through the windows,

sunlight blinding.

It echoes in the voices intertwining.

And we are home.

LTM 1/28/24