“Suggested donation $10,” the box solicits through its slit of a mouth. I stuff a 10 in there, just to shut it up, and enter the sanctuary.
My mind is a mass of arrows pointing inward: I’m such a career woman in my sweater with shoulder pads! And it cushions the strap of my bag. Double-duty fashion. These pews are like Victorian British women – so stoic and stiff. I’m going to sit on one of them. Is it sacrilegious that I’m coming to this church only because Vince Guaraldi once performed here? Not nearly as sacrilegious as that gay man taking a picture of his boyfriend praying. Are they joking or serious? Am I enraged or envious?
But the arrows multiply and overlap and fade – like the opening credits of Charade – and I am silent. Silent under these canopies of stone, these glowing embers of stained glass.
Organ chords emerge, as if from the earth’s core. The choir enters. “Shield the joyous,” they sing. Every voice is a ribbon, swirling through the room, encircling hearts and suspending them. Suddenly a small crowd of tears gathers in my eyes, confused, overcome; we all look to the altar. God? What would you have me be? What would you have me do?
But I close my eyes, and the crowd disperses. Go home now. There’s nothing to see here.
bendanielparman.com 
mmm. me gusta.
…on a side note… ten dollars is a lot of money for an offering box to demand! Especially for simple passersby.
You fascinate me.
Why the switch?
Your writing is quite urban but definitely not pedestrian. I feel the city in your posts. When you talk about taking a leak on the street, it made me wish I was full bladdered in the middle of the night. Each post reads like a dream – blurred but revealing – either expressing a deep fear or truth (or maybe both). The posts leave me wanting a short story from you.
I love how you take me places and how it reminds me of the English Literature that I am currently studying. The imagery. The diction. The genius. Your creative genius.