Thomas prays--it's preparatory: desperate yet trusting, urgent yet patient; ignorance has a way of inspiring supplication. God, I'm not sure what to expect, and . . . Sir Baldwin had seemed distraught about requesting confession. Had he committed some sin of special gravity? Thomas can't imagine what difficult circumstances the Knight's service endangered him to, what gray decisions. I will certainly fail him if left to my own devises, my own limited wisdom and counsel. He'd been a soldier himself once, years ago, and remembers the weight of responsibility, the speed at which crucial decisions had to be made, and that with partial information. If you would have me, LORD, I submit myself as a vessel, to speak your words, to convey your love and truth. Let not this man of virtue--courage and duty--receive me, a poor substitute, but rather experience the fullness of your character through me. Amen.
Thomas rises from his knees with a tranquil mind, having left his worries on the floor with his prayer. He clears his mind of speculation to better listen. Had he been certain, faith would not have had space to believe it would have all it needs in time. He finds a broom, and busies himself with sweeping until the Knight arrives.
@%1; Peter Baldwin