Exploding inward, splinters of the sanctuary doors pepper the congregation. Footprints smudge into the weave of the red carpet, in the wake of gruff men touting machine guns. Paisley dresses scream, fearful of their wicked intent, pews squeaking as the masses huddle together making smaller targets in their ignorance. Through cigar clenching teeth orders are given, under watchful squinting eyes.
Arms splayed, I leap from the balcony, grasping the twinkling chandelier, riding it downward as wires rip from the ceiling. Feet plant firmly in the chest of the lead guerrilla, driving him unconscious into the ground. Diving behind the pulpit as bullets chew at it's girth, I roll to the choir loft, grasping the flag, brandishing it's golden point as a spear...
I wake from my day dream as the alter call is given, wondering if I should go forward, guilty again of my adolescent wandering mind. I don't know how many times I replayed the same siege as a tween, passing away the minutes until the benediction. What would I do if...but the mercenaries never came. Instead I fiddled with my universal translator trying to get it to explain all the grown up words...sanctification, eschatology, atonement, doxology...searching for salvation.
There was a reason the youth sat in the balcony.
Tonight, Logan is sprinkling cinnamon into the egg mixture, preparing to dip the bread for the french toast. He and T are cooking breakfast for the volunteers tomorrow morning that will serve in environments designed just for each age group. Where the words used are easily understood by little minds.
At 6 AM, he will run into our room and ask if it is time...not to open Christmas or Birthday presents, but to serve. It warms my heart that at a young age, my kids realise it is not about them. I hope it continues.
Rest assured, if the roving band of militant guerrillas bust in the door, I have a plan.