Tom Lathara

Chicago, Illinois, USA
Send Message


The church stood by the river,
unflinching guardian for ages, scanning the horizon,
It’s steeples, like a bony hand raised in benediction,
Blessing the flowing waters on its journey.

For some, the church is like parent's home,
For a weekend visit or a place to be one festive days,
For others, a place for milestone events,
Baptisms, weddings and the final farewells.

Rows of Pews, brown wooden benches
Like arrays of monks waiting to start the procession,
Heavy, solid and uncomfortable seats,
Strong and dependable like a farmer's hand.

Week after week, you will see the same person
At any particular seat. Folks in certain seasons
of their life, never change their seats or seatmates.
Their ways are set in more ways than one.

Each seat, in the church built in the distant past, have a tale,
Seats of mighty and meek, learned and untutored,
Haughty and humble, talented and tawdry
But here, they all sing the same songs and prayers.

At times, the lumbering footsteps sneak in
Pluck one off the seat like a farmer cull the herd,
The culled one drops and the herd moves on,
Just as the empty seat is again taken by another.

Layer upon layers of Joyful songs, mournful tunes,
Heartwarming events, heartbreaking moments,
Stacked over the years under its high ceiling.
Wait in reverent silence and let it wash over your soul.

For marooned souls in a sea of distress,
Forlorn seekers with wordless prayers and weary sighs,
Swollen eyes brimming with tears, trembling lips,
This sanctuary has a seat for you, and angels to heal.

@All Rights Reserved
111 Total read