Shaken
by Judy Seicho Fleischman
Church bells ringing at nightfall.
A young woman
enters the sanctuary
not knowing why she's there.
It is Holy Saturday,
the day before Easter,
the time between crucifixion and resurrection.
Someone asks,
Do you want to sit in the side aisle?
The stranger, trembling, does not know how to answer.
White candles are distributed.
The church lights are dimmed.
An old woman sitting alone in a pew,
her hand trembling,
struggles to light a candle.
A soft glow fills the room
as others join her
in this simple expression of faith.
The procession begins.
Frankincense creates a choking mist.
The rector's words reverberate,
shaking to the core
the one who does not belong.
It is the seventh day of Passover.
Sabbath is ending.
The candlelight reminds the young woman
of a familiar ritual marking the transition
from rest to activity.
Aware of being different,
Aware of being the same,
the stranger looks up at the cross
covered in white flowers.
She feels torn,
cut in two,
feeling the suffering of Christ,
feeling the suffering of separation.
The tension in her chest begins to pulsate.
Something is shifting.
A story is changing.
The narrow place inside her is opening,
revealing the promise of freedom.
The choir begins to sing.
The lights in the church come on.
The rector speaks.
The service ends.
Everyone turns to greet a neighbor.
The old woman and
the young woman
shake
hands.
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