A Vision

Last night I dreamed the church in winter. Crowds of people filled the pews, laden with armloads of roses and larkspur, each with a tray of lit candles. St. Clare loosened all her blonde hair in a pew in the front of the sanctuary, and I knew St. Francis nestled between friends somewhere. The priest told us In this dark hour of the yearwe light candles to dispel the vision of evil, which shadows us whenever we forget to turntowards the light. Directly I could feel beside me the grey one on his ashen horse, his face obscured under his tattered hood, and felt the wind of his galloping, but my candle’s flame did not flicker. You must make your own light, the Father said, and as I raised my head I saw every man and woman, every child, clean and naked, brighter than the glow of a thousand candles.