Canon Daniel Clement

The church always seemed different at night.

Daniel Clement had thought this so often that he no longer knew if it was an observation or a habit. By day, St. Mary’s belonged to everyone: to the ladies arguing over the flowers, to the children running down the aisle during rehearsals, to Bernard and his endless objections, to the dogs when they managed to slip in where they didn’t belong.

But after nine o’clock, when the doors were locked and the last voices of the village had faded away, the church seemed to remember that it had also been built for silence.

Daniel pushed open the heavy side door and stepped inside.

The air smelled of cold stone and candle wax.

He set his keys on the small table by the entrance and walked toward the altar without turning on the lights. He didn’t need them. The light streaming through the windows was enough to make out the rows of pews and the dark silhouette of the crucifix.

He knelt.

It had been a long day.

One of those days that seemed to hold five different days within it.

He closed his eyes.

"Lord, grant me some patience..." he murmured.

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