The Heart's Kingdom

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.