Chapter One
"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trust, always hopes, always perserveres.
"Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
1 Corinthians 13:1-13
May, 1969 Andover, Massachusetts
Within the four walls of the dimly lit room, there was a flimsy bed, a wooden chair, a desk, and a small closet. The bible on the desk was worn and tarnished, but the words it boasted inside were glowing on the pages. The pages were warm to the touch, ignited by a higher power, a spirit which dwelled peacefully in the hearts of those who believed.
Josiah Edward Bartlet was one such person. His heart provided a home for the holy spirit, and the holy spirit provided a home for his heart just the same. A mutual love he had grown to depend on and seek out in times of trouble. He had known little of love throughout his childhood and, subsequently, his maturity. He believed in what he could not see, fueled by his determination and resolute faith. To Jed, his faith was his own motivation. Seeing is not believing, he would say. Believing is seeing. The more time he spent justifying his faith and depending on his conviction, the sooner he would be privileged enough to behold the powerful, all-knowing being he had trusted in all these years, without faltering.
Though the plain, plastered ceiling held no great interest for him, Jed continued to lay on his bed staring up at it. While calm and placid he did appear, inside he was as restless as a tumbleweed in the desert. This was not to say he was unhappy, because nothing could be further from the truth. He loved his small room at the church. He loved his flimsy bed, his wooden chair, his desk, his small closet, and his old, worn-out bible. Considering his options, there was no place he would rather be. He pictured his father back home in Manchester, reading the newspaper, listening to the news via radio (nothing but the old-fashioned way would do), and consuming glass after glass of his preferred brandy. He pictured his mother at home, sewing, cooking, cleaning, essentially seen and not heard. He pictured his brother at college, studying, partying, enjoying life away from home. He pictured his best friend, soaring the skies over Vietnam in fighter planes and defending the United States. Beyond that, he had no one to picture. Four pictures in his museum, strategically hung along the walls, hallow#d and glorified.
A terse knock on the door caused his silent reverie to burst like a bubble above his head. He sat up abruptly and stood, approaching the door stealthily.
"Paul, hi."
Father Paul Norwood was a few years older than Jed, but had become a trusted friend during the short months he had been at St. Andrew's.
"Jed."
"What can I do for you?"
"Father McDevitt would like to see you in the rectory," Paul announced.
"He'd like to see me? Do you know why?"
"I believe he wants your input on this Sunday's sermon."
Jed laughed uneasily.
"Well, this is a surprise."
Jed smiled gratefully and stepped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him with one last look at the lonely furniture and the room's one redeeming quality- the antiquated bible on the desk.
"Oh, God, make it go away."
Abigail Bennett stood in the bathroom of her childhood home, hunched over the sink. She held her head up, her eyes burning into the unwelcomed image of herself in the mirror. She stared into her own eyes until they began to water, then she shook her head furiously, quickly averting her eyes from the mirror. With one snap of the wrist, she turned the faucet on and watched as the water began pouring out at a rapid pace. She positioned her hands under the rushing water and cupped them, allowing the water to fill them like a bowl. She leaned down further and splashed the freezing water onto her face, then examined the black mascara join forces with the water and drizzle down her cheeks, leaving dark stains as they went.
Abbey gazed at her reflection once more, allowing the water that had washed over her face to cleanse her soul as well. She was focused now, though not quite healed. The moment she heard footsteps outside, she quickly checked to make sure she had locked the door. As expected, the man behind the footsteps began to pound on the door urgently. Words were inevitably spilling out of his mouth, but she could decipher not one single syllable. She felt her limbs go numb and leaned back against the wall, her body sliding down until she hit the cold, linoleum tiles on the floor. She shivered as the icy sensation spread throughout her, then pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them protectively. She closed her eyes, restraining the tears that were beginning to be released. The pounding on the door continued, as did the persistance of the tears.
The moment the knocking ceased, one hot, stinging, solitary tear glided down her cheek smoothly. She opened her eyes and granted access to the army of tears that had been waited rather impatiently to assail the enemy.
So far, the relaxing summer vacation she had envisioned was an absolute disaster.
Now I've heard there was a secret chord That David played, and it pleased the Lord But you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this The fourth, the fifth The minor fall, the major lift The baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her She tied you To a kitchen chair She broke your throne, and she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain I don't even know the name But if I did, well really, what's it to you? There's a blaze of light In every word It doesn't matter which you heard The holy or the broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn't much I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you And even though It all went wrong I'll stand before the Lord of Song With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah
"Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen