Saturday, March 11, 2006

Coffee Morning

Friday, March 10, 2006

Angels Came

ANGELS CAME
There once was a beadle who threaded holy words through the needle of his pens that were kept sharp and clean. He stitched the ink onto the fabric of smooth brown parchment.
Angels came after the beadle had cleaned the tips of his twelve ink pens, placing them carefully in the hand-made, green felt-lined pen case at the end of every day.
Angels came after the beadle had placed the last jots and tittles precisely where they belonged in the text.
Angels came after the beadle made sure that the last ink stroke was dry before he closed the large leather-bound volume, lest the damp ink smudge or mar any strokes, or jots, or tittles, or words, or sentences, or paragraphs that he had lovingly and laboriously copied onto smooth brown parchment pages.
Angels came after the beadle had extinguished the small flickering flame from the tallow taper that stood in a tarnished brass candleholder.
Angels came after the last wisp of smoke had disappeared over the darkened writing table.
Angels came after the last creak from the aging brass hinges on the heavy oaken door faded into the hastening night.
Angels came after the last soft thud of the wooden latch had receded into the fog-filled narrow cobblestone streets.
Angels came after the beadle had walked through the fog-filled narrow cobblestone streets to his single room apartment where he ascended the gently skewed stairs. Whereupon entering his meager dwelling, he lit the nub of yellowed taper to light his sparsely furnished dwelling.
Angels came after the beadle ate his insufficient supper.
Angels came after the beadle placed his thread-bare prayer shawl over his narrow shivering shoulders, whereupon, he performed his nightly intercessions to the King of the Universe.
Angels came after the beadle had carefully folded his threadbare prayer shawl, placing it on the back of the single rickety chair that occupied but a little space in the cold, cramped apartment.
Angels came after the beadle had gently placed his yarmulke on the old wooden nightstand that sat next to the simple bed, which had belonged to his father and mother where his six sisters and two brothers had first breathed the breath of life.
Angels came after the beadle had wearily crawled under the faded, worn covers that sat lightly on the sagging mattress—the one whereon his mother and father had slept together as husband and wife for forty-four years and where his six sisters and two brothers had first glimpsed the faces of their kin.
Angels came after the beadle’s eyes had shut, closing out the day’s events.
Angels came after the beadle began to dream of golden parchment pages whereon were stitched, with silver ink, holy words threaded through the needle of his pens. In his dream he saw great leather-bound volumes on the surface of the desk where he had sat for forty-four years making copies of books, placing every last jot and tittle precisely where they belonged in the text, ensuring that the last ink stroke was dry before he closed the large leather-bound volume, lest the damp ink smudge or mar any strokes, or jots, or tittles, or words, or sentences, or paragraphs that he had lovingly and laboriously copied onto brown parchment pages with his twelve ink pens that were kept sharp and clean, nestled in the hand-made, green felt-lined pen case.
Angels came after the beadle’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic tempo.
Angels came, after the clock chimed at midnight, to the place where the beadle threaded holy words through the needle of his pen and stitched the ink onto the fabric of smooth brown parchment.
Angels came after the chimes had ceased to the great leather-bound volumes on the surface of the beadle’s desk where he had sat for forty-four years making copies of books, where he had placed every last jot and tittle precisely where they belonged in the text, ensuring that the last ink stroke was dry before he closed the large leather-bound volume, lest the damp ink smudge or mar any strokes, or jots, or tittles, or words, or sentences, or paragraphs that he had lovingly and laboriously copied onto brown parchment pages with his twelve ink pens that were kept sharp and clean, nestled in the hand-made, green felt-lined pen case.
Angels came after the big hand on the town clock touched the numeral one. They opened the great leather-bound volumes on the surface of the beadle’s desk. On each jot & tittle & stroke & letter & word & sentence & paragraph they breathed the seraphic light of life onto the pages where the beadle had so lovingly and laboriously copied onto brown parchment pages each jot & tittle & stroke & letter & word & sentence & paragraph until they were clad in seraphic light; whereupon, they danced and sang a holy psalm to the King of the Universe.
The seraphic light spilled over the beadle’s twelve ink pens that were kept sharp and clean, nestled in the hand-made, green felt-lined pen case; whereupon, they danced in joyful rhythms over the smooth surface of the desk where the beadle had sat for forty-four years making copies of books.
The seraphic light passed easily through the tarnished brass candleholder and the tallow taper, cascaded over the edge of the desk and down onto the worn wooden floor toward the heavy oaken door and the aging brass hinges, then out into the fog-filled narrow cobblestone streets.
The seraphic light moved methodically toward the gently skewed stairs and up to the beadle’s single sparsely furnished room, permeating his thread-bare prayer shawl, which had been draped carefully over the back of the single rickety chair which occupied but a little space in the cold, cramped apartment.
The seraphic light moved gently over the beadle’s yarmulke on the old wooden nightstand that sat next to the simple bed, which had belonged to his father and mother whereon his six sisters and two brothers first breathed the breath of life.
The seraphic light moved over, through and under the faded, worn covers that sat lightly on the sagging mattress—the one whereon his mother and father had slept together as husband and wife for forty-four years and where his six sisters and two brothers first glimpsed the faces of their kin.
The seraphic light moved over, through and under the sleeping beadle.
Angels came after the beadle
Who threaded holy words
Through the needle of his pen
And stitched the ink onto the fabric
Of smooth brown parchment,
And took him to
The King of the Universe.

Written by Larry Langley 12/05/01