A Proclamation

The congregation sat quietly. The place was packed. Harold hadn’t seen this many people in many years. He was in the lobby. It, at least, was empty. Everyone had filtered through the sanctuary doors and found their seat. They were waiting for him.

Harold was a little man made littler by his slouched posture. His hair was thinning too soon for him, but it retained a healthy brown hue. He was still young, but had been mistaken, on more than one occasion, for being a decade or two older than he was. His puffy eyes and swollen hands weren’t telling of his twenty-eight years of life.

He clutched a little pamphlet in his hands. The paper had grown slightly soggy in his grip. His fingers hurt from squeezing the corner of the page.

“You don’t have to do this,” the pastor said.

Harold started and his back straightened. For a moment, only a moment, he lost any sense of where he was.

“He wouldn’t have expected you to do this, Harold.” The pastor said.

The pastor, a man much older than Harold, looked younger than him. His simple black shirt and pants were modern, almost minimalistic. Harold was wearing the second-best suit of the man in the box at the front of the congregation.

The suit was too big. The man in the box was too big. The congregation was too big. The pastor, whose hand was now on the loose shoulder of Harold’s jacket, was too big.

Harold clutched the paper program. His nails tore through the wet paper and dug into his palm.

The pastor took a little breath and looked into the sanctuary. “What will you do, Harold?”