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The work was mind numbing yet somehow important. I was a tiny contributor to a large thing, bringing my offering under the watchful gaze of Almighty God.
Chasing dust motes wasn’t as poetic as the gift of the little drummer boy, but it was the gift I had at the moment. I’m not sure what the elders would think of my musings.
Daddy had always said the people were the church, but with it all empty and lemon-fresh scented, it felt more holy than it did on the usual Sunday, when it was full of powdery-cheeked ladies and men wearing suits. The quietness soothed me more than any choir. The stillness let me focus and actually see the play of light on stained glass windows.
Without light, the windows would be as blank and lifeless as plain old regular, unsanctified panes.
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