Old Whaling church

On a beastly hot July afternoon,
when even the hydrangeas were wilting
along the white washed Edgartown fence rows,
Pat and I were escorted into this sanctuary.

Instantly we were transported.
Silence, cool still air,
and whispered voices riding the shafts of sunlight
all the way from the top of those grand windows
down to reflections of the green tree light
melting into the protestant blue of the old painted floorboards.

I’ve spent this winter’s lunch hours reading Vineyard history.
So now, when I think back on that quiet vaulted space,
I can see the dark coated whaling captains
in their beards and scars
standing along the straw covered lane
contemplating the great three storied columns
and the closed door plank backed pews
and the hundreds of panes of clear glass
reaching up to let in the light of the heavens.

Nothing says New England to me
like the clean and simple lines of the woodwork in a country chapel.
As grand as this space is
it retains that purity of purpose.
The elegance of polished wood
outlining the patina of practical white paint
with the slim velvet cushions as the barest nod to earthly comfort.

I am a preacher’s kid.
I can sense in my bones when the calling comes
and a sermon is about to segue into a dissertation.

I am grateful
in my advancing years
for reminders of grace
for windows that let spirits soar
for a soft corner of cushion
and for the gift of reverence.