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My son and I were out the door today quick as a lick. As I let my maryjane shows clatter down the tile steps we shut the geometrical door behind us and walked under the lantern light that set tracers in the rain gutters. A line of quail twittered past us in a wavy line. The tops of thier heads like old roman helmets. My son's cowlick saluting in unison. We drove the slush covered roads to Sunday Service. When parked the sliding van door slid on it's track like a jet on a runway. My son leapt out sidestepping a puddle that left droplets of rain on my nylon stockings. No time to waste. We heaved the heavy glass door open and embarked on our journey through the painted cinder block halls. The commercial carpet at our feet. One could almost smell the bland taste of the bread, hear the stacking of the white dainty sacrament cups. The hymnals were placed in unified order on cold metal chairs, and the carpeted benches still smelled like they had been upholstered yesterday. As my son and I walked hand in hand to gain our seats by the accordian room divider. I felt one small dainty sacrament cup be pushed into my hand. As i looked down at the floor. I saw the quails from earlier twittering across the floor. I than caught a draft as the cloth of the robed figure beside me brushed the side of my cheek. That is when I heard the pipes of the organ that were much to grand for this small chapel. I looked into my sacrament cup and realized this was no ordinary day at church.