Would they believe it, he looks up, and watches, as the cloud passes over, it’s the clearest of blue sky days, where did it come from.
Memories, a sweet morning, the light so intense, forced Solomon out of his very comfortable bed, grasps the moment, they start singing early, he wanted to hear it for himself, the Spirit had arrived, the tide finally turned, Solomon was lending his prayers a little energy, he is in the car, on his way to listen, after all, the gift of words is a rare Gift, it wasn’t about writing best sellers, it was about writing petitions that got the Heavenly ear, Godly approval. The wonder of it, patience has been rewarded, he passes through the large gated entrance, the driveway is smooth, he pulls in outside, the sanctuary, dismounts, enters the temple, the voices already drifting through, he is inside, greeted by a choir of Holy Men, he takes a seat, being early, six in the morning, he had it all to himself, and they sing their prayers in a heavenly harmony.
It was like listening to the birds at dawn, such commitment, their time on earth dedicated to the praise of God, so empowering. Years later, he is listening to another heavenly choir, a Norwegian assembly, singing some of his favorite tunes, simply amazing, there was three of them in attendance, the hour a little more humane, a Sunny summer afternoon, it was as if they came to sing straight to the hearts of those wishing to listen, and surprisingly, and still he wonders, why weren’t the little nuns who lived nearby not invited to attend, how their hearts would rejoice, regulations he frowned, sometimes they are too stiff, need to be stretched, same as Jesus and his fondness for the sacred feminine, and then he sighs, the ones who stayed with him while he struggles on that cross, how ironic. It wasn’t a complaint, it wasn’t anything more than an observation through the heart, we all need a lift, the Spirit wont rise itself; memories, how they lift the heart when we recall them, thanks all.