Cathedral Building

 I am building a cathedral
            But for the glory of God.
I take the shaped stones I’m given, slap them with cold mortar, position them boorishly
Into hard place.
I do not quarry the stone, cart the stone, shape the stone, nor carve the stone.
No.  The stones arrive, having been passed through many other hands
Before they are hefted by mine.

I am building a cathedral
            But it is an impossible task.
I am expected to align each stone into perfect conformity.
But each one differs so in color, texture, weight, streaking.
I inspect each stone individually, as my father taught me.
I run my hands along each surface, fingering the unique imperfections in each.
I know how much mortar to use, how to nudge each stone, against its natural resistance,
Into its most content, most secure place,
Which was determined by God before it ever came into my hands.
Just as I, too, fulfill my role
            In building a cathedral.

I am building a cathedral
            But I am not alone.
The weight of these stones is lightened by Lumpy Linda’s infectious, gap-toothed smile.
Jolly George with his flabby jowls has been teasing me for years.
Cook always has an extra crust of bread for me.
Even Rancid Richard with his permanent sneer and filching fingers
Is as enraptured as I with Tinker Tom’s tall tales.
Big Brendan has been lording over the forge for longer than the Abbot can remember.
Gavin the Glazier, by the iridescent mastery of his craft, inspires me to greatness.
Simon the Simple watches me for hours, bewildered at my two strong hands and sound mind.
And Blessed Sr. Brigid, who salves my withered hands with quiet grace,
Reminds me why
            I am building a cathedral.

I am building a cathedral
            But it is exhausting, and I age.
I hoist yet another stone, the seventh or eighth hundred this lifetime.
And as often happens, I scrape my hands on the gritty surface.
The skin on my palms, my knuckles, my cuticles is always scuffed.
Some days, only a thin veneer of my skin protects my bony old hands against the cold.
How much of my grazed skin has been cemented between
The stones of this cathedral?
 

I am building a cathedral
            But I doubt I will see the end.
Some mornings, I arrive early in the dusky dawn light
And stand in the wide breathless space that will be the nave,
Before the younger masons clamor up the scaffolding,
And the smiths begin their plinking, and the carts begin their tumbling,
And the stones begin their plunking, and the mortar begins its schlepping.
 
I stand in the sacred silence and lift my eyes to the sky
As the sun rises too brightly for someone as inconsequential as I.
I try to imagine the arching pillars and the soaring ceilings
That will encase the countless petitions of multitudinous pilgrims
And house the very heavens.
I try to envision the spire that will stretch unimaginably high
Aspiring to reach God Himself.

I squint up into the vacant sky, into the rising sun,
Already so fierce I must shield my eyes.
I search helplessly through the vastness and I wonder:
Will we indeed reach God?
Does He even know
            We are building a cathedral?

I return to my station, bend down again, and heave another stone. 
This is one I’ve never seen before,
Different again in its color, texture, voice, song.
And I, a servant of God, persuade it into its predestined place,
Gently smooth the mortar around the uneven sides,
Admiring, all the while, its undeniable, consecrated might.

And it is enough to know
That for the glory of God
I am building a cathedral.