Jim Kacian

Eastertide

Late Saturday afternoon, after a day in boats on the sea, I accompany a friend to church. While he makes his confession I stroll the perimeter of the old building. In alcoves where the Stations of the Cross, the synoptic 14-stage story of Christ's accusation, trial and crucifixion, had once been placed now stands nothing but mouldy, crumbling plaster. The gloomy light of the votive candles, the rarified slant of winter sun through stained glass, the muted ambience of high vaulted ceilings conspire to make of this absence a felt emptiness. I feel oddly chastened, the more so for the purple raiment of the altar linen, the smells of beeswax and frankincense and worn wood, and am transported to the chiaroscuro of my childhood, who had just revelled in the broad horizons and sharp salt smells, the clear sky and endless depths of sea that have become the arenas of my prodigal life.

just a fluke
returning to the deep . . .
do I believe in God?