What do you think?
Rate this book


290 pages, Kindle Edition
Published February 1, 2024
All our days are measured in our prayers, our years in the feasts and the seasons. What do those who would ban them know of the ever-turning wheel - Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter, Whitsun, spring, summer, autumn, winter, the new grain and the old leaf, the moonlight and the falling snow? Does the wind blow through palaces and throne rooms as it does through the hovels of the village, do the rains fall alike on the poor and the rich? The women of this village will never own necklaces of rubies; they will only ever have their precious rosary beads. I want to ask the kings and the princes of the Church, who have never known a day of hunger, why they should begrudge the joys of the humble, when they are so rare. A sheep roasted after harvest, a goose at Christmas, flowers strewn along the way at Corpus Christi, meet reward for faith and arduous labour. Why would those whose walls are hung with cloth of gold deny the pleasures of an image to men and women who otherwise would only see the ordinary things of everyday before their eyes? People who cannot read must learn their Scripture from their own church walls and in that way find the stable at Bethlehem and the cross at Calvary as familiar as their own homes and their fields, while never straying more than five miles from their doors. You who take so much for granted, with your sound walls, rich food and fine jewels - and books, especially books - do you truly begrudge the people of this or any other lowly parish their little scraps of coloured glass, their painted saints, their confidence in prayer? How cruel you are, if you do.
This is a peaceful place, but something has been stolen from it - not solely the candles, the colours and the pictures on the walls. The saints have gone, they who were ambassadors of a power beyond all understanding, stepping stones to God. And it was here where the living and the dead met, where the living had faith that their songs would reach the ones they had lost and give them comfort. A place where the dead, although invisible and speechless, were present in prayer and imagination, a place of covenant between us. Now it is simply where the bones lie, nothing but a tomb, for the bridge of prayer has been condemned and the dead shall only be remembered in graven stone and in the short span of a heart. Safe they may be, in the gentle night, but what of us who mourn them in this silence; how shall we sing for our dead?