Service
by Mab
I promised the believers here a service. Perhaps a funeral rite was inevitable, given why we came. I'd hoped to speak of God's joy in his children, but speak of his comfort to the grieving instead, to doubtful looks from some.
The rough coffins are caught in the dust devils under the harsh light. The scouring fire of rigid belief has power; the proof lies upon the dirt. But the danger is that cleanliness isn't left in its wake, only sterile, dark emptiness. From the believers, o Lord, deliver us – a blasphemous prayer, but I know the truth of it.
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