memories in wood and frame

On Thursdays, I work in the manse. I love that house.

I'm in there, typing and sorting, putting bulletins together and winging email messages to everyone, alerting them of any changes.

It's peaceful. I can look out my window and see the rain falling down on the street, watch the trees leaves shiver as the drizzle hits them.

The house is still unoccupied - we don't have a minister right now - and the house is settled into patterns of stillness, broken only when the infrequent meeting or group is held there, or on Thursday, when I'm there.


I fold the bulletins together last, sliding different pages in, so I can read my bloglines at the same time. My hands know the feel of this now, you see.

Today I read tut-tut's new posting on Inside The Shell where she talks about hands. It's a lovely, lyrical post, and I was completely under its spell when I came to the end - and noticed she'd added music.

Chanticleer. O Clap Your Hands. Lovely. (Go listen!)

I had it pealing through the old speakers on the manse computer when suddenly I was filled with the sense that the old house was holding its' breath and listening, every molecule straining to hear the music.

Thinking to itself 'I remember this.'

How many sing-alongs and hymn sings have been held under this roof? How many lullabyes and love songs have been whistled and hummed in these rooms?


For a few moments the house that had been a home for so many seemed to smile.