The Rev. Melanie McCarley
The Russian novelist Ivan Turgenev writes: “I saw myself, in a dream, a youth, almost a boy, in a low-pitched wooden church. The slim wax candles gleamed, spots of red, before the old pictures of the saints. A ring of colored light encircled each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church …. But there stood before me many people. All fair-haired, peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling, rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat, when the wind of summer passes in slow undulation over them.