My entry into the chapel had been accomplished and I felt like a
storm-torn bird who finds its sanctuary among the green leaves of a
great tree, while with Martha and the boy I went up to the very chancel
rail itself.
Then I lifted my eyes and looked up into Gregory Goodloe's face, from
which the white light of a great joy tinged with a great sorrow, looked
down upon us. And as had been the case for all the long weeks stretched
out behind me there was in his eyes no glance to me of a personal
understanding; all the passion was that of a shepherd for his flock, and
in its greatness I humbly acquiesced as I fell upon my knees in the
front pew with Martha beside me, while he lifted his hands for the
opening prayer of his service.
And in his short prayer he made the dedication of the pile of stone and
mortar which had stood before the face of the wind as sturdily as old
Harpeth itself. His words held the simplicity of those of a great poet
and each was a separate jewel that could be imbedded in the hearts of
his people to last for the span of their lives. He made a grateful
acknowledgment of the safety of the chapel and of the spared lives of
those before him, and in a few ringing sentences he prayed that we all
be delivered from the blindness of the prosperity which was upon us when
the disaster had made us halt in our rush and give time for brother to
face and call upon brother in affliction. So ringing and vivid was the
self-accusation of heedlessness in the few sentences when he dealt with
the condition of all of us when sorrow had come upon us, that we all
held our breath with almost a groan of conviction, and his promise of
our humbled and contrite hearts was ratified with a breath of relief.
Then we rose from our knees and sat once more facing him while he stood
before us and began to read the memorial services for our dead. And
through the whole beautiful ritual he led us to the very words of
triumph: "Then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written;
Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?"
The warmth in his beautiful voice and the light upon his face poured
over us all with a healing that we knew would endure.
After the dedication prayer and the memorial service the old
Presbyterian minister, whom we had all known and loved since infancy,
talked tenderly and with great sympathy to us for a few minutes and the
stammering young Baptist divine gave us an insight into a heart of
youthful devoutness.