Ways to Look at Stained Glass

Molly Taft

I.

Sunlight pours through the fragments. A colorful reflection of the glass on the old church floor. Muddy and blurred, like a lake’s mirror image of the sky. Dust drifts through the rays of light.

II.

Devout churchgoers hold their hands to their lips. I follow their silhouettes with my eyes, they are only shadows compared to the glass behind them. Deep in prayer, I wonder what’s on their mind.

III.

The golden incense burner rocks back and forth. An aromatic cloud floats past the pews. The back of my throat feels suddenly ablaze. Stained sunbeams shine through the haze.

IV.

Women in habits look at the window. A mosaic of their faith and their life’s devotion. Saints and their miracles portrayed in little pieces of glass. What is it like to bask in the sunlight of their God?

V.

Sometimes, the windows make my heart rush. I feel connected to their glow. The glow I have seen since I was a child. I am still growing every day, but the windows never change.

VI.

Bells toll five times. The air is moving, buzzing. But the windows stay still in their sacred splendor. They are just as important as the ringing heard all over town.

VII.

A child sleeps in the arms of her mother. And when she wakes, she smiles. The stained glass resembles a kaleidoscope. How simple life must be, to be so certain of what you’ve been taught.

VIII.

A plaque under the window reads “in memory of…”. I never knew the man the glass was dedicated to. Would he like it if he saw it now? Or would he walk right past it?

IX.

I drag my fingers across the pieces put together. I stare at my reflection. Such a fragile thing, the glass is. Prone to destruction, is that why it’s so alluring?

X.

I make my way down the aisle. A lovely array of flowers bloom beside me. The windows shine onto me from both sides. At this time I feel so grateful.

XI.

I cannot look out the stained glass window. How do I know that there is anything past it?

I have been told that if it were clear, I would see the church’s lawn. Maybe I would see the clouds, I wonder if they’re white or gray.

XII.

The sinner waits for reconciliation. The line shortens as the sun sets behind the trees. But the church grows dimmer until it is dark. And with no light, the stained glass windows disappear.

XIII.

The air is thin and hits me as I open the church’s heavy doors. Fluorescent street lights guide me home. I look over my shoulder to see the stained glass windows one last time. The window panes are frosted over, and the church is illuminated from inside.