had gleefully resorted to some of his old bachelor habits. The house was more cluttered without his wife’s presence, though nothing like the health code violation of a dorm room he had shared in college. He was now old enough to appreciate clutter sans filth. He ate more fast food and drank more cheap beer. His main indulgence had become action movies, a viewing habit he had largely given up after marrying. Now he frequently escaped the silent household to reconnect with his inner 14-year-old, delighting in every violent, juvenile, gross-out guy flick released for the fanboy crowd. He had even invested in cable television for the first time, just to expand his viewing options.
This evening, like most others, he immediately flipped on the television, not even bothering to notice what was on, before peeling off his preppy duds and flopping down on the couch clad only in gym shorts. As he lay there cooling off with a glass of ice water, atop a blue afghan that had been a wedding gift from Laura’s favorite aunt, he took a moment to stare at the stained glass window that served as his spiritual guide.
It was one of the things that had sold him on the historic house during their first tour. Along the outer wall of the living room stood a large stained-glass window portraying a ray of sunshine coming down from the heavens across a field of sheep. Prominently flying across the ray of light was a white dove with an olive branch in its beak. It was a beautiful design, marked by skilled craftsmanship, most likely from an old church.
The realtor had known nothing about the window’s origins. Her best guess had been that someone remodeling the house discovered it at a local antique shop and installed it as a decorative touch. Laura had quietly pointed out the anachronism of having a 1920s western shotgun home with what looked like a Tiffany-style stained glass window more popular in the northeast around 1900. “Its eclectic,” Lewis had whispered back, wondering to himself: Think we’ll have bad karma for stealing a church window?
Despite the anachronism, they had taken the house, window and all. Throughout the years they had sunk a small fortune into new pipes, rewiring, insulation and other maintenance typical of an older home, but Lewis had always refused to touch that window. He never told his proudly agnostic wife, but whenever he was feeling down or worried, he looked to the window for a sense of hope, as if its spiritual origins were still giving off some kind of comforting vibe. Lewis was not sure what he believed about the powers of God, but he knew he believed in the powers of the window .
Now, after turning on noise and seeking relief from the heat, he dutifully followed his final evening ritual of staring at the window. He was never quiet sure if he could call what he did “mediating,” but somehow the act achieved the same purpose as a more traditional prayer—centering his being for just a moment. Upon completion of his ritual, he picked up ten pages of materials that had been ferreted out of the presidential library, carefully Xeroxed, and left in his mailbox by Mandy Taylor. He could already tell this girl was going to prove a great asset to his career.
On Labor Day weekend Lewis met his wife at a quiet little Nantucket bed and breakfast where the ocean breezes were already turning crisp with the impending autumn season. Lewis found the weather a nice respite from the lingering summer heat back home, even though a constant rain prevented them from enjoying much of the scenery. Laura spent part of the weekend reading galleys from her latest book, insisting her editor needed them by Tuesday morning. Lewis passed the time by finishing a Geronimo biography he was supposed to review. Sitting separately across the room, each to their own reading, Lewis could not help but feel that the chill from the air was leaking inside. They did spend some quality time together, satisfying the conjugal requirements of the
This evening, like most others, he immediately flipped on the television, not even bothering to notice what was on, before peeling off his preppy duds and flopping down on the couch clad only in gym shorts. As he lay there cooling off with a glass of ice water, atop a blue afghan that had been a wedding gift from Laura’s favorite aunt, he took a moment to stare at the stained glass window that served as his spiritual guide.
It was one of the things that had sold him on the historic house during their first tour. Along the outer wall of the living room stood a large stained-glass window portraying a ray of sunshine coming down from the heavens across a field of sheep. Prominently flying across the ray of light was a white dove with an olive branch in its beak. It was a beautiful design, marked by skilled craftsmanship, most likely from an old church.
The realtor had known nothing about the window’s origins. Her best guess had been that someone remodeling the house discovered it at a local antique shop and installed it as a decorative touch. Laura had quietly pointed out the anachronism of having a 1920s western shotgun home with what looked like a Tiffany-style stained glass window more popular in the northeast around 1900. “Its eclectic,” Lewis had whispered back, wondering to himself: Think we’ll have bad karma for stealing a church window?
Despite the anachronism, they had taken the house, window and all. Throughout the years they had sunk a small fortune into new pipes, rewiring, insulation and other maintenance typical of an older home, but Lewis had always refused to touch that window. He never told his proudly agnostic wife, but whenever he was feeling down or worried, he looked to the window for a sense of hope, as if its spiritual origins were still giving off some kind of comforting vibe. Lewis was not sure what he believed about the powers of God, but he knew he believed in the powers of the window .
Now, after turning on noise and seeking relief from the heat, he dutifully followed his final evening ritual of staring at the window. He was never quiet sure if he could call what he did “mediating,” but somehow the act achieved the same purpose as a more traditional prayer—centering his being for just a moment. Upon completion of his ritual, he picked up ten pages of materials that had been ferreted out of the presidential library, carefully Xeroxed, and left in his mailbox by Mandy Taylor. He could already tell this girl was going to prove a great asset to his career.
On Labor Day weekend Lewis met his wife at a quiet little Nantucket bed and breakfast where the ocean breezes were already turning crisp with the impending autumn season. Lewis found the weather a nice respite from the lingering summer heat back home, even though a constant rain prevented them from enjoying much of the scenery. Laura spent part of the weekend reading galleys from her latest book, insisting her editor needed them by Tuesday morning. Lewis passed the time by finishing a Geronimo biography he was supposed to review. Sitting separately across the room, each to their own reading, Lewis could not help but feel that the chill from the air was leaking inside. They did spend some quality time together, satisfying the conjugal requirements of the
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