Thomas sweeps the dusty floors of the old church Sanctuary, moonlight through the open windows adding glow to the rows of empty pews. He prays in preparation to receive confession, waiting for whomever should arrive.
God, I make myself available for your use. Sometimes, failing for "the best," the Almighty settled for "the best around." Scary thought, isn't it? But a perfect craftsmen can compensate for a faulty tool. Wield me in your capable hands, for your loving purpose. Amen.
He looks around at the low ceiling, the stone walls. It really does feel like that: a Sanctuary . . . more a tiny fortress, really--safe. No gilded altar. No stained glass windows. It's a plain and simple place where a man or woman might meet with God, hopefully without distraction. Some day soon he might purchase some paintings, some carpet too . . . but for now, Thomas is pleased to have any place at all for ministry. His congregation would be its adorning ornaments, until a time when icing was in the budget.
He leans his broom against the side of the confessional, and takes a seat inside his half.
Selena @Vivian York