March 17, 2009
Roman cathedrals do not bow to God. Instead they raise both hands to meet above the ground, rattling their bones with bells on them every day at noon and midnight. Whispers echo through their veins, traveling down narrow hallways with arched ceilings and marble floors. I shuffle my feet slowly through them, seeking the warmth I know in my heart the King of Kings would seek as well. He visits this place, surely. But I am not sure how long he stays.
Today, standing in the warmth of newborn sunlight, fresh off the wagon of a long winter, the breezes of Adam Ondi Ahmen ran their nurturing fingers through my hair. I stretched my shoulders out to greet the view, inhaling extra long. A shadowy spanse of fields wrapped around the place we stood, the thick thread of the Grand River lining the perimeter like the binding on a patchwork quilt. The choir of this cathedral echoed against the hills, a throbbing trill of thousands on thousands of frogs hidden in the trees and shadows. No marble floors; nor pointed steeples needling the sky; no wimpled women or thick robed men, nor organs nor candles nor wine. Only this cool Spring breeze, and a cluster of faithful saints gathered near an altar place. Armed with the word and a prayer under the arms of wakening trees.