Chapel Running Away Quotes

There was a chapter called “Tired Hearts” in A Song in the Dark. A romantic girl had promised herself to a young man, but it appeared that he had run away with her best friend. Liesel was sure it was chapter thirteen. “ ‘My heart is so tired,’ ” the girl had said. She was sitting in a chapel, writing in her diary.

No more running away. I told you I’m not letting you go, so you need to get used to having me in your life. Every day. No more space.” “I am not ready…” “Get ready,” I said. “I thought about you every day for nine years, wondered what you were doing. I had questions I wanted to ask but couldn’t. Those nine years are on me. It was my mistake to walk away from you but I’m not doing it again. And I won’t let you do it either. All I’m asking for is time. I’ll prove to you that you can trust me again.

Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Mal’s calm, the surety he seemed to carry in his steps. “Do you think it’s out there?” I asked one afternoon when we’d taken shelter in a dense cluster of pines to wait out a storm. “Hard to say. Right now, I could just be tracking a big hawk. I’m going on my gut as much as anything, and that always makes me nervous.” “You don’t seem nervous. You seem completely at ease.” I could hear the irritation in my voice. Mal glanced at me. “It helps that no one’s threatening to cut you open.” I said nothing. The thought of the Darkling’s knife was almost comforting—a simple fear, concrete, manageable. He squinted out at the rain. “And it’s something else, something the Darkling said in the chapel. He thought he needed me to find the firebird. As much as I hate to admit it, that’s why I know I can do it now, because he was so sure.” I understood. The Darkling’s faith in me had been an intoxicating thing. I wanted that certainty, the knowledge that everything would be dealt with, that someone was in control. Sergei had run to the Darkling looking for that reassurance. I just want to feel safe again. “When the time comes,” Mal asked, “can you bring the firebird down?” Yes. I was done with hesitation. It wasn’t just that we’d run out of options, or that so much was riding on the firebird’s power. I’d simply grown ruthless enough or selfish enough to take another creature’s life. But I missed the girl who had shown the stag mercy, who had been strong enough to turn away from the lure of power, who had believed in something more. Another casualty of this war. “It still doesn’t seem real to me,” I said.

Coralina laughed. When she and Kerrick were younger than twelve, they had tried to run away together. They reached the abbey in Merridell and asked for a friar to marry them. The abbot, smiling, took them to the chapel, saying he would return shortly. He disappeared for an hour. And returned with the queen. The

In the basement of my fears, I memorised every line You wrote in your old perfumed letters. You said you would come back in 3 days, And each time I stood waiting Reciting your letter like a poem, I started to believe that you meant something else, Something more poetic when you said 3 days. I began to see everything in three; God the son, God the father, God the Holy Spirit. For three years I have been waiting Because if I lost my faith in God What would become of faith itself? And so, when she came, I took whatever she said with a grain of salt She promised to erase every memory of you, I did not want to disappoint her with the truth That I still remember you Whenever it rained That was how we met, You swept me with your beauty And showed me a wet letter When the sun shone, We dried it and the letter was never whole again, Maybe I should have taken a cue from it. love makes us blind When we are blind We don’t see disappointments Three days came, Three days met three decades, I was married, I had a child Yet I still had old memories of you, Your perfumed letters Were still ingrained in my mind For me to love you My lover had to die And your husband too had to die. So, we went to the chapel in secret And prayed for the death of people Who had promised to love us. And when they did die We run away On a boat Never to return To love ourselves like the character In the old perfume letters So hard that we couldn’t distinguish reality from poetry

Leucate. Same parish priest, same church. The great local innovation is Communion under the two species. If the faithful are reluctant to drink from the same chalice, God will not hold it against them. They can always dip their host in the priest's wine. All this new ritual passes over the heads of the general run of worshippers. Homily on the Covenant struck with Moses, then sealed in the blood of Christ, and then in the Eucharist. Only Christ washes away spiritual stains. Silence falls. There then enters a person who could well be the village whore - a blonde creature in a pale green miniskirt and with a boldly plunging neckline. She slips quietly into the Lady Chapel, lights a candle for the Virgin Mary, then prostrates herself in prayer in a dark side-chapel before leaving again unseen. The Holy Covenant remains the one between the people of the village.

Dee Dee stood next to Ash, hands clasped, eyes lowered as though in prayer. The two brothers did the same. In the corner, two gray-uniformed women quietly sobbed in unison, almost as if they’d been ordered to provide a soundtrack for the scene. Only the Truth kept his eyes open and up. He lay in the middle of the bed adorned in some kind of white tunic. His gray beard was long, so too his hair. He looked like a Renaissance depiction of God, like the creation panel in the Sistine Chapel that Ash had first seen in a book in the school library. That image always fascinated him, the idea of God touching Adam, as though hitting the On switch for mankind.