The Meadow 157 So Many Wouldn’t Make It Brian D. Morrison The six-year-old was told the preacher hated children. In the pew beside him, the boy’s father dreamt of guillotines. The boy considered interpretations of Jesus in red—so many ways to be misunderstood. He shuddered at the parishioners’ surety of their own methods. Mother thought, He’s speaking right to me, that prick. She wanted the pulpit to spark and light right then. In the father’s dream, peasants lined up, eyes on the blade. The boy, Bible on his knees, words big as damnation and the swelling pride of living, felt Godly. He was lighter fire a thumb couldn’t banish. His was a world of thought, and all thinking was creation, action waiting to happen. The boy could set the church on fire with just the thought of it burning. The preacher bellowed, “The father is love!” The boy knew his father wanted football, cheeseburgers. He wanted fists
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