The church stands alarmingly tall, within memory, and terribly small, facing reality.
It looks as though it spread its wings, then curled them underneath its body, and settled in the hillside, just to nest, forever.
One room, twice the length as width, the pews were standing strait, holding the backs of sinners and saints,
The rocking noise of feet standing on wood floors, the creaks and moans of precious hands, holding the seats for those who had gone before, had settled in for sermons, for blessings, for grief to find them there, or to find them missing from the pictures cast.
Stained glass; the staining wrought with tender thoughts of those who had lead them here, had kept the church together. Its crown, it’s six-sided steeple, pointing to heaven, capturing the eyes who knew that they could see the church, this house of worship, where man could feel the face of God, resting in their hearts.
It feels the traces of three centuries, curving its lines upon its face, inanimate could be said; the hallowed hall that kept the people, but feelings of warmth, and thoughts of those who hugged and smiled and brought this tiny piece of heaven here, running through its open veins.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Christine Van
1895 Methodist Episcopal Church, Niotaze, Kansas
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