As a boy, Micah stared at the play of light in the stained glass windows, watching the colors creep over the shoulders and heads and stuffy white shawls as the Priest in his robe talked on and on. Later, he hated closing his eyes to pray. He dreaded-- loathed-- shutting out that colored light that made dust into faeries, or guardian angels, or terrible seraphim. But he learned, and he prayed, until one fearsomely unanswered prayer drove him from the church. As his heart began to heal, he learned to open his eyes again, and his heart became a church he carried with him.

(Word count: 104)