Interiors

That’s the chair. Third from the right,
where my grandfather sat on Sundays.
Weather-rough face. Calloused hands
holding the hymnal, singing
in a crusty baritone.

It is a simple church that still stands today.
Wooden pews. Woodwork that shines
in the morning light. A small balcony
with two small rooms for Sunday School
while the adults studied in the sanctuary.

A piano in the corner. An altar rail
around the front for communion.
Forty years later, I can still hear the voices –
there were not many of them – singing.
I hear each voice. I remember the prayers

of my childhood. I remember the mix
of earnestness and joy. The blue jeans
and gingham dresses in the pews.
Truth be told, it is more than memory,
richer, more complete.

The windows are stained glass.
Not the stuff of Notre Dame or Saint Peters
with glorious depictions of the bible
in rich hues of red and blue. No,
these are simpler. Squares of color,

almost pastels, green. yellow, frosted
and almost clear. Letting in the light
but blocking the view in or out,
creating an interior that cannot be seen
without stepping through the door.

That’s the way of it. The way of everything.
There are doors and roads,
and you cannot trust your windows.
Windows are not made for transparency.
They were made for light,

to let you know there is something else,
beyond the darkness you live in.
Something else. Something more.
Waiting just there
on the other side of the door.

About this poem

A poem about my grandparents’ church in Carsley, Virginia. I spent a lot of weekends and summers there and in a real way it is where I found and built my faith.

A poem about faith. A poem about love. A poem about success. A poem about what settles in our soul. A poem about doint the work to become what we want to be. Poetry is never about one thing.

And yes, the photograph is from Carseley Methodist, just across the road from my grandparents’ farm.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom