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and lit bright as the cigar’s burning tip.
    â€œThe way I imagine it,” Jeffrey went on, “there was a man who lived then. A truly gifted man, who could take the hardest of oaks and feel the veins and trace the patterns buried within the wood. He was a man of faith who tried to follow the Word, and he was troubled by the goings-on in the house of God.”
    Alexander leaned forward. “His name?”
    Jeffrey thought a moment, decided, “Matthew.”
    Alexander settled back. “Go on.”
    â€œMatthew was an artist of wide repute. In fact, he became so well known for the quality of work that even the great bishop in Cambridge heard his name. He was called in to make this new altar table in commemoration of some great earthly event.
    â€œMatthew knew that the church was notorious for declaring artists’ work as donations and paying poorly and slowly. He was also aware that to refuse someone as powerful as the bishop was to court death. But more importantly, Matthew wanted to contribute his work to such a great and holy place as the Cambridge Cathedral. Matthew accepted the task. And he put his very best effort into this work.
    â€œHe sat there day after day, praying and meditating on the structure that would house his work, the building with which his work would need to wed. He sketched the church’s medieval stained-glass windows. Then he sketched the cathedral’s great cross, which was made around the year eleven hundred. And as he worked, he listened to the talk that swirled around him.
    â€œHe heard the church officials whisper gossip in his ears, tales and politics and subterfuge and things of this earth, which he felt had no place in the worship of his Lord. In time he began work on the actual cabinet, but as a very troubled man.
    â€œHe carved the front panels as a series of reminders, calling all who served from the table to remember the One they served. He harkened back to the earlier days, when faith was the reason for their gathering, not the words of earthly kings. He carved the cross. He carved the apostles as they appeared in stained-glass windows made when the church was young. And when the piece was done, he stayed to see Mass celebrated upon his creation, and then he left the cathedral, never to return.”
    â€œMy dear Jeffrey,” Alexander said quietly. “You surprise me.”
    â€œMathew had a son,” Jeffrey went on, “who took his father’s name and trade. In time he passed both on to his own son, along with the story of the Cambridge altar. The grandson grew in stature and talent to match that of his grandfather, and shared with him his dislike for the church’s earth-bound concerns. As he grew older, his dislike for the church’s tainted ways grew so strong that Matthew decided to leave the world behind and take his family to America. But before he left, he traveled back to the Cambridge Cathedral and made careful sketchings of his grandfather’s altar.
    â€œThroughout that long voyage, the storms raged and threatened to consign him and his wife and his children to the bitter depths. He suffered during that trip. There is no question of that in my mind. He suffered badly. The food was terrible, the cold almost unbearable, the wet and the stink their constant companions. He and his family were not oceangoing folk, and at times their seasickness made them wish one of those huge waves would swamp their little boat and put an end to their trials.
    â€œMatthew and his family arrived in the Virginia colony just as a new church was being built. One much smaller and simpler than the Cambridge Cathedral, but filled with the Spirit that had called to his grandfather’s heart. Matthew had no money, only his tools and talent and the desire that burned in his breast. His contribution to the new church wasyet another altar table, one miniaturized to fit the smaller surroundings. But the panels were exactly the same,