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Another Hand

Another Hand ATR/99.4 Vincent Van Gogh, The Church at Auvers (1890) Near a stone church that appeared to have no door, a few made home in a grove of pines. Eyes dislocated by horrors, lips bloody from biting back words, they peered through chimney-broom branches looking for the door. Midnights, in monastic protocol, they processed from the trees to search for the door, but couldn’t find it. One cold night when a ship’s sailcloth blown from the sea snagged on the mast of a pine, the skinniest one, mantled in a mink of snow, left the line and thrust his hand right through the temple stone. Like a scuffed-up dry faucet of chrome, it poised stiffly near a pew asking, in its way, had it found the door. For a noiseless chime of chilly bones, the stone was not a door even in a book. Not till a hand inside reached out, took it as its own. Anna Evas Anna Evas is a composer, lyricist, and teacher. She reads widely and is a peripatetic learner, thanks (among other things) to audible.com. She splits her time between Richmond and Northern Virginia. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Anglican Theological Review SAGE

Another Hand

Anglican Theological Review , Volume 99 (4): 1 – Aug 25, 2021

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Publisher
SAGE
Copyright
© 2017 Anglican Theological Review Corporation
ISSN
0003-3286
eISSN
2163-6214
DOI
10.1177/000332861709900413
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

ATR/99.4 Vincent Van Gogh, The Church at Auvers (1890) Near a stone church that appeared to have no door, a few made home in a grove of pines. Eyes dislocated by horrors, lips bloody from biting back words, they peered through chimney-broom branches looking for the door. Midnights, in monastic protocol, they processed from the trees to search for the door, but couldn’t find it. One cold night when a ship’s sailcloth blown from the sea snagged on the mast of a pine, the skinniest one, mantled in a mink of snow, left the line and thrust his hand right through the temple stone. Like a scuffed-up dry faucet of chrome, it poised stiffly near a pew asking, in its way, had it found the door. For a noiseless chime of chilly bones, the stone was not a door even in a book. Not till a hand inside reached out, took it as its own. Anna Evas Anna Evas is a composer, lyricist, and teacher. She reads widely and is a peripatetic learner, thanks (among other things) to audible.com. She splits her time between Richmond and Northern Virginia.

Journal

Anglican Theological ReviewSAGE

Published: Aug 25, 2021

There are no references for this article.