Call to Prayer
Subject: The Sunday Service Where: A London Parish Who: Reuben St. John Warnings: None Open to: All
The service went well. He hadn't tumbled over the delivery of the psalms, and his voice hadn't trembled through the lines of the Lord's Prayer as they had done the first time he had done the service by himself, with only the priest to watch over from the choir pews. Perhaps later he would admit to himself that he had not seen any of the faces in the crowd of parishioners, only the mass in front of his pulpit, and it had been as much as he could bear- the faithful faces of so many turned towards him, seeing him as holy, pure, untainted. He had caught himself once, on the verge of confession, but instead calmly managed to direct the congregation into the next hymn.
Now it was all over, thank goodness and light, and he could feel the tension leave his body as he walked down the steps, ready to bless his audience and talk to them individually on their way out. He hoped this wouldn't be as grueling as the service itself; normally it was hardly a task, but something today, something about the rustle of the wind in the yew trees in the grave-yard surrounding the church made him feel less at ease than he had been before, and he felt the nerves returning as he dried his sweating palms on his cassock.