i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor & squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun & rain make april.
When I read the phrase "little church", I see a small, white chapel. Nothing too big or fancy. There are wooden pews, with cushions, perhaps – no chairs. There is a piano, keys worn from use, but still in tune. Worn Bibles and hymnals are placed in every row. I see a stained-glass window in the front – not a large one, not very fancy, but the colors that stream through dance on the white walls. Light fills the room. There are lots of windows, and no dark corners. It's the kind of small-town church I imagine my mother grew up in.
This image contrasts sharply against my memories of the great English cathedrals I saw this year. They are grand, indeed. I got dizzy from looking up so much, examining the artwork painted across vast, far-away ceilings. I remember the intricate stonework, woodwork, the floors so nice I almost feared to tread on them. The windows were always my favorite part – so grand, so many colors, so much light.
When I read of the splendor juxtaposed with squalor, religious connections of the little church still lingering, I remember Westminster Abbey. The Abbey is by no means “squalor” in the typical sense, don’t get me wrong. It’s one of the grandest buildings I’ve ever seen in my life – but cluttered, so full. People milling everywhere, tour guides trying to keep track of their group, talking over one another. Impatience grows when the group in front does not move fast enough, resentment threatens when rushed past a revered place. Every step is a step upon a grave here, a memorial stone there. And though there are prayers every hour…the place feels far from sacred. There is too much busy to feel the holy ground in that place. The hustle and bustle in that Abbey reflects the rush of the city.
And so I pray that my life would be not like a historical landmark in a large city, but like a small, sunny chapel. A place that people can come to and say "This is home. This is quiet and peace."
“i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest” – How I wish that that were true! I have grown up near cities, constantly aware of the pressured value of time. Even more aware now that I am a college student, and deadlines multiply faster than they seemed on the syllabus. There is never, never enough time. And yet, who can add an hour to life by wishing for just one more? And so I pray that God would teach me to number my days & give me a heart of patient, peaceful wisdom, so that when days grow brief(est) I remember in stillness: He Who neither slumbers nor sleeps knows my needs.
“i am not sorry when sun & rain make april.” - This line...this line is near perfection for me. I complain about metaphorical rain far more than literal rain, I know. It is not as pleasant. But both the rain & the sun are necessary for growth, for spring-sweet smell, for brilliant jewel colors, for cool breeze, for radiant sunsets, for puddle-jumping and barefoot dancing. Everything that is worth-while and beautiful, literal or metaphorical, requires some inconvenience - some disappointment, some thunder, some fallen limbs, some flickering lights gone dark, some cold, pounding drops. And so, much as I sometimes complain of the rain...I am not sorry for it. I am learning to rejoice in April.
(This post started as a series on e. e. cummings's poem "i am a little church". Then I realized I need to do more thinking, more mulling on the rest of the poem before I can write well on it. It's a rich, beautiful poem - if you read it, let me know what you think of it [all of it, or just sections] in the comment section!)
