Visions

Whenever I have held a Bible in my hands, I have remembered the day they buried those ruined Bibles under the tree in the rain, and it is somehow sanctified by that memory.  And I think of the old reverend himself preaching in the ruins of his church, with all the windows open so t he few that were there could hear "The Old Rugged Cross" drifting up the hill from the Methodist meeting.  And my own church is sanctified by the story that was told to me.  I remember my father said when the two of them first came home, they found the roof of the church in such disrepair that there were buckets and pans set in the aisle and on the benches.  He said the women had planted climbing roses against the building and along the fence, so that it looked more beautiful than it had ever looked before.  Prairie had come into the fields and orchards again, and there were sunflowers growing in the roads between the ruts.  The women had their prayer meetings and their bible studies even though the church was falling into ruin around them.  I think about that, and it is strong and lovely in my mind.  I truly believe it is a waste and ingratitude not to honor such things as visions, whether you yourself happen to have seen them or not.

                 "Gilead," by Marilyn Robinson, p.96-97