Sleeping in Church

Pappy posted about the topic of sleeping
in church last week and it reminded me
of a conversation I had with my dear 93
year old grandfather, who passed away
last year. We were chatting and he asked
me if I remembered going to church with
him, when I was a little girl. I did, indeed,
remember and had fond memories of
sitting, curled up next to him in the pew.
I was inspired, a few years back, to write
this poem as a tribute.

Indian Church, painting by Emily Carr, 1929


First Brethren Church, 1959

The steeple bells are silent
and all now assembled.
Backwards in the pew,
I scan the parishioners.

Men are tall dark trees.
Ladies in plumed hats, tropical birds.
One, with red lipstick, a parrot.

Sun kaleidoscopes through stained glass.
I wonder at the windows in revered worship;
torch, harp, and Jesus the Shepherd.

I trace the carved chairs at the altar.
The pattern of my eyes
are mirrored in their wooden backs.

Nodding head slumps to Grandpa's knee;
a prized butterscotch lifesaver
sticks in the palm of my hand.

Suddenly awake; seats creak
as the forest groans to its feet.
Trees and birds sing out in unison.
So it ever shall be! World without end. Amen. Amen.