What makes a place sacred?

Its a patch of carpet.  Nothing special or unique.  There’s even a stain on one corner from some coffee cup spilt years ago.  The blue shade might have been bright and vibrant years ago.  Or it might have always been the same color as the Portland sky as rain clouds form.  Tracing fingers over the edges reveal well-worn bumps that perhaps remain from once squishy standing ground.  Those edges are now frayed and stretch thin over the tile below.

Yet this place holds thousands, perhaps millions of minutes inside its fibers.  Years of Sunday morning sermons, Wednesday night youth groups, Saturday afternoon weddings and funerals.  Children have run up to this space to hear a story, and then be sent off to their rooms with the promise of toys, snacks, and a craft.  Men and women from the congregation have kneeled on the step to receive bread and wine.  Perhaps tears have added temporary marks on the blue as pleading prayers were whispered between sobs.

When I sit on this uncomfortable little step, I can hear the echoes of to many moments in this place.  Leaning against a splintered board, its easy to imagine shouting out against an injustice, offering a blessing over the bride and groom, silently grieving with a family loss, and all of the other moments that took place right here.

By only the light of morning rays coming into the room, all of the history and all of the possibility is beautifully sacred.

#52sparks is my year-long writing series based on an art prompt challenge.  The title is inspired by a quote from Star Wars: The Last Jedi: “We are the spark, that will light the fire that’ll burn the First Order down” (Poe Dameron).  The spark that lights a fire to toast a marshmallow or to ravage a forest begins in the space of an inch.  So just imagine what hundreds of inches and words can do.