Sunday

A religious debate you could say?

Sunday; the day on which God Almighty rested after having created our wondrous world. Papa forever tells my elder sister, Catherine, and I that on this day, we must rest and simply admire the beauty of our Father’s work: from the might beech trees that grace the forests five or so miles from our home to the dainty daisy which is still heart-stirring enough in its simple charm to be rendered “the eye of the day”. We must only interrupt this prolonged state of awe when we are summoned to church, where we clasp our hands together and thank Him in hushed tones.

If Papa found this book, I would most certainly be punished for the words that my pen is set to spill onto paper. One of his favourite sayings is “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” His conviction in discipline is almost as great as that of his conviction in God. I know he will not stumble upon it though, for there is a loose hearthstone in the kitchen under which I can hide this essay of sorts. Papa never passes over the threshold of this room, situated at the very back of the house, but even if he were to do so, my mind would be at ease because my little book’s hiding place is very much invisible to a mere mortal’s eye. I am safe to write the many thoughts that trouble my young mind.

Sundays are insufferable. I gain no pleasure in watching Albert, my younger brother, filing wooden animals “two by two” into diminutive Ark and nor do I gain pleasure in shivering my way through the dull monotony of the sermons delivered by the clergyman at the church. There! The truth has been written! Judge me not though, dear reader, for I have not lost my faith in the Almighty One. I simply do not believe that faith lies within the cold stone confines of the church that lies at the heart of our small parish.

My faith in God is still very much alive for in the midst of the dark, cold and silent nights, when I rest safe in the arms of sleep, He has shown me exciting, exotic places upon which the sun forever shines its golden rays. Places where I can run amongst lush, emerald-green vegetation whilst a tropical breeze caresses my bare arms.

He has, in the light of day, come to me through the lips of others and expressed His earnest desire for me to admire his craftsmanship, not in the dismal church that lies yonder, but on each and every continent; in cities, in forests, in jungles, in deserts! That is the vocation that He has bestowed upon me. God led me to the foot of the stair case opposite the parlor and He made my weary form perch on the bottom step and He made me eavesdrop on the thrilling account Papa’s friend gave on his recent travels!

God’s gentle, unseen hand ushered me into the library one wintry evening, too, and guided me to a book written by a certain Jonathan Swift, over which I perused for many an hour. Oh how my heart swelled to hear and read of such adventure! Swift was a clergyman, a man of God one could say. God spoke to me through him and Papa’s friend and by doing so, informed me of how we should really express our gratitude to Him.

Sitting on hard, wooden pews, quite reserved, does not express thankfulness at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. True appreciation is better conveyed in enjoyment. What have we to thank God for if we have never truly experienced the world He laboriously crafted over six long days?

 

Author's Note

I was experimenting with my style here. I was trying to write in the style of a 19th century novel.

Reviews

[FJ Davis]

Well-conceived, beautifully written--rich in both imagery and perception.
Along with a decidedly good ear for 19th Century narrative, your story amply demonstrates style and grace--qualities, unfortunately, not possessed by all writers.
Work to be proud of, Jazz.

(Probable typo in third line.)