We were loathe to leave.
Something made me linger in the entrance of the Waldensian temple clutching the side of the Alps. And I wasn’t alone…
. . . . . . .
I turn again to face the pulpit, camera in one hand:
“La Croce é la potenza di Dio Noi predichiamo Cristo crocifisso”
The place still rings from our last song… But once more my lips part:
Because the Lord our God is good,
His mercy is forever sure
His truth at all times firmly stood
And shall from age to age endure…
Shouldn’t we always end with the Doxology?
My hear throbs fullness as I walk once more towards the door.
What a day!
– Breakfast in the shadow of the cliff where 19 year old boys, and 14 year old girls, and mothers with their babies sealed their testimonies and the rocks cried red.
– The school that young men left never to come home unless they dropped of exhaustion before they died at the stake.
– The stone table, [the very table!] where they copied line after line of scripture with cold fingers all winter long so that the next generation wouldn’t have to die in darkness.
– The canyon fog rolled down.
– The pool where the mocking captain filled his lungs with freezing water instead of air, while the insults were still on his tongue...
My fist closes around the iron gate, lungs take in air hard.
My gaze fixes afar.
Natasha steps up behind me; silent.
“‘His truth at all times firmly stood.'”
“And shall from age to age endure.”
“Some thought it was nearly gone…”
I step around to watch water pour timelessly out of the fountain before the door.
(Some of you know that fountain: I saw your names in the guestbook.)
“But the flame was still there.”
My gaze wanders up to windows high.
“They thought men and devils had it nearly snuffed out.”
My shutter sounds.
“But we know better.”