Read The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String for Free Online

husband. Her dark, flowing curls and eternal smile gave her a Shirley Temple nuance. If you were lost and scanned the crowd looking for someone who’d help you, you’d choose Micki every time—and a lot of people did.
    She smiled her patient-look. “This is the chancel; the area surrounding the table. Did you know the altar represents a table?” Allie shook her head. “Well, some early churches—Roman Catholics—” she emphasized the words, giving Allie a measured look to let her know Lutherans didn’t start the practice but accepted the symbolism, “used the lid of martyrs’ tombs as their communion table. That’s why most altars—tables—look like tombs. That ‘other’ Lutheran church in town, St. John’s, is all modern. Their altar looks like the pod they buried Spock in.”
    Allie stared at the granite block altar, trying to remember Star Trek movies. Her long discussions with her husband about joining a church hadn’t included this weird stuff. They simply wanted to raise their children with some kind of religious affiliation. They’d “test driven” ten churches in town, dissecting them afterward, during Sunday brunches. They’d decided to attend adult instruction classes at Shaded Valley to learn what the church believed. Strangely, they’d both liked the antiquity and symbols in the Lutheran church. They’d found the same old, solid symbols in cathedrals, but they’d discovered the Roman Catholics had more rules.
    The tipping point came at the annual Camp-Out/Eat-Out. “A church that incorporates beer and barbeque into their meetings is the place for me,” Fred had declared. So they became Lutherans.
    “Are you confused by my profound religious analysis?” Micki asked.
    Allie shook away her thoughts. “What?”
    “The altar’s symbolic.”
    “I can understand that.”
    “And I already told you this is the chancel,” Micki continued. “You can tell it’s special because it’s usually separated in most churches by a railing, or screen. In Jesus’ time, they used a thick, heavy curtain to keep the holy men from the sinners. I often wondered if they had little peep holes in it. You know, so they could sneak a peek and see who was doing penance. It’s hard to resist looking out from behind a curtain. Well, it is for me.”
    “So why isn’t there a curtain, here—with holes, of course?”
    “You’ve probably heard that the curtain in the temple ripped apart when Jesus died?” Micki said.
    Allie frowned.
    “Well, it means that now, we sinner-saints have direct access to God. We don’t need any holier-than-thou person to go behind the curtain and ask forgiveness for us or to kill livestock and offer it for our sins.”
    “Oh, yeah…animal sacrifice,” Allie said. “I’d like to learn more about that.”
    “Why? Do you have some animals that need killing?”
    Allie gave her a disbelieving stare.
    “I told you; we don’t do that anymore.” Micki grinned. “I’m not making this stuff up. Do you want me to continue?”
    “Is there more violence?”
    “I’ll try to keep it PG. Now, that part is the nave.” Micki pointed toward the pews with her elbow because her fingers were grabbing the wreath. “And outside the doors, that’s called the narthex. The terms come from old words meaning ‘ship.’ Most Lutheran churches are designed like an ark, only upside down. Lie in one of those pews and look up. You’ll think you’re in the belly of a big boat carrying you to safety. I don’t know about that modernistic St. John’s though. They must’ve designed it from a Klingon Warship.”
    “Do you often lie in pews?” Allie asked.
    “I’ve spent a fair amount of time prone in a pew. You should try it. Go on. Try out the front row.” She added a few more sprigs of blue cedar to the wreath for color and scent then clipped the wire.
    Allie lay in the pew, her hands crossed over her chest, staring upward. “The ceiling looks like a wash basin to me.”
    “Good grief,