Friday, January 13, 2006


Last night, partner and I went to the weekday healing and communion service at our parish. He has a weekend of interviews ahead. We prayed for him. We prayed for all those who are sick that are on a list, and some who are not, gathering all our worries and cares. This is what we do. We prayed. We remembered.

The church was quiet, and all attending were seated in the choir. Several times throughout, we heard muted city noises: an ambulance, a bus, a plane, a car or truck, the noises of transportation, moving people through the city. But mostly we only heard the quiet in a church at the end of a busy workday, the individual sounds of another worshiper shifting in his or her pew, or the priest speaking, or all our voices responding in unison as we read aloud from the prayer book. Each sound iwas clear and unamplified. I am used to sitting there on Sunday mornings in black cassock and white cotta instead of work drag. I fingered the printed bulletin and heard the silences, the muted noises, the small and clear sounds. I faced the organ across from me, also quiet and unlit.

In a few moments, we spilled back out into the street and partner and I drove home to feed the animals, and then joined friends at a small Peruvian restaurant not far from our house.

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