Mosaics

A draft blows through the bad frame of the windowpane. I can hear bare branches clacking in the January wind in the night outside. I hope someone brought that dog inside.

It’s almost 11:00 PM. All the monks are tucked away in their beds except maybe for the abbott. He stays up late and works on his mosaics. I try not to disturb him. It’s a different kind of sacred time for him. After a long day of duties, it’s now time for art.

I’ve seen him work. He cracks each special imported Italian stone into the perfect shape and size. All of these little hand-crafted stones have their own pixellated purposes. Insignificant rocks by themselves. Together? A masterpiece that will last unto ages of ages. 

Each stone is no doubt cemented in place with a prayer.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.”

We visitors all stay up late. Some of us read, some of us work on insane Quixotic projects. Some fight Hell.