The old lady sits at the banister along the pew. Her only obligation is to show up at church. She is frail and pays twenty dollars a week for the service. Having faith, but also being untrusting of humanity after a while.
The pastor talks with all of his flock over time. Waiting for a man or woman of strong faith to really shake the house.
He talks to the old woman. She has questions now, and they’re of peculiar interest. Like, where does the money go? Is there anything more she can be doing?
She used to sit at home and knit and read books for pleasure. She knew God or another form of him through art. The artists who find the words to sprinkle their appetites in vocabulous ways.
She found herself too. Knowing who she was when reading and discerning character. But she went back to church after years of not attending to remind the pastor of her days and experience through church. Of course her experiences would navigate through all of her years of worship and bloodshed to lead people toward service.
What she really craved was the path. Knowing that people were there for their own reasons, but ultimately for some greater good.
Maybe someone would approach her after service. The messages themselves were long winded, unless the pastor had more experience than of common man, then they were easy on the ears. What they said made sense, and they could relate any passage to a thematic story just through the endurance of being a disciple and having even a touch of belief.
But other times, her books would call her. Beckon her to relax and knit. Avoid church again for months, maybe years. She wouldn’t miss much. She already put enough time and her war ship in the battle of the saints debate for love or power. For forgivenesss or judgement. For prosperity or wilt.
Short Stories