Hear Our Prayer
By Clearance Runzelspoon
We sat in spectacular St. Charles Church: the columns sculpted from stone, the artifacts priceless. The vaulted void ceiling kept us small…thoughtful. The children were present in mass; it was time for petitions. Fifteen children had been selected to read personal testaments — they would profess their thanks to the congregation.
The first few were unthoughtful…dull even. “I want to thank God for our wonderful church.” “I’d like to thank God for our wonderful school.” “I’d like to thank God for the Hoosiers.”
Smiles and chuckles rippled through the pews. Murmurs of amusement mingled with pungent incense. I glanced down at my watch. Migs tapped his foot and straightened his shirt. Jon swayed lightly from side-to-side.
The screech of a footstool grabbed our attention. A tiny boy struggled to adjust the mic; his face reddened with blank panic. Fight seemed to outlast flight as he stood silent atop the stool. His petition fought its way out; we could see it shaking him from his legs to mouth and then it burst forth…
“BIIIIIIIIIRDS!”
His cry echoed throughout the massive church — bouncing, circling the dome vaulted ceiling. Straight faces stared unawares. The stool scraped stage left, but its effect lingered.



