The soul calls weight upon weight unto itself.
And in so little time
I am here again.
Barely able to lift my head after digging into its depths.
Wishing for bare feet as my echoing heels at once announce and condemn this sinner's presence.
Certainly, that old woman in her silent pew could see the guilt spilling over,
If only she lifted her head.
But she loudly whispers her beads and clicks her worn shoes against the kneeler behind,
Convincing the dark church of her non-judgement, while I seem to feel the halo pulsing under her black wool hat.
The heavy curtain retracts at my touch--or does it welcome me, ushering in the prodigal, not to lose another moment of grace?
"Bless me, Father, ..."
Contaminating the air, filling that small box with evil words, revolt upon revolt against Divine love.
They linger for a moment, then crumble.
How many words have crumbled against the panels of this stall, smashed to nothingness by the form of the sacrament, washed away by penitent tears?
At the name of Jesus, the devil runs away.
"Thunk!" The window of mercy has allowed its miracle.
The curtain is drawn and morning light falls in through colored glass.
Still the loud whispering, still the darkness, but a new stillness.
"Grace abounds all the more"* and I renew my promises.
My love returns to find His never changing.
An infinite distance spanned in the period of an old woman's prayer.
Soft footsteps hurry by and I lift my head to watch God's instrument of grace ascend the altar.
He gave his life to serve the Church:
To serve the Creator and the creature, the Redeemer and the sinner.
His alarm also calls at dawn, but it calls a battle-cry:
Contend with the evil in those you must also love!
Bring Christ to these broken hearts!
Must not his valiant heart hate my sins more than I?
Is he not burdened? Is he not weary?
Why does he not stoop?
The Lord calls sinner upon sinner unto Himself.