Tuesday, May 15, 2007


I'm a sucker for old stone churches, so when I saw the stately Gothic spires of the Westminster Presbyterian Church, I followed them down Nicollet Mall to Twelth Avenue. The main entrance to the sanctuary was locked, but little arrows led me around to the the other side (the church occupied an entire city block), where I could enter past a receptionists's desk. I crept into the sanctuary. My mouth fell open and I gasped. Just as quickly, I shut it again, noticing too women wending between the pews checking to make sure that the little half-sized pencils were sitting properly in their holes in the backs of the pews.

I wish I had words for the loveliness of the inside of that church, oval like the inside of an Easter egg, and colored as brightly by the strong noonday sun stained with intricately leaded glass. Over the galley, a massive corona of purple irises inlaid with butterflies. Majestic saints and golden columns. I wish had the words for it, but truthfully I don't.

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