Church Bells

Black bumpers.

White chalk.

Shiny steel springs.

And a bar with some diamond grooves, sort of a faded silver and gray.

These are the tools of our trade, of our vocation, perhaps of our salvation.

The devout will bray about the superior qualities of this bumper or that bar. "Only in kgs" they will sniff. Their hands reveal an odd kind of exercise stigmata.

The newly converted won't even notice the difference, too uneducated to care about "whip" or bearings. They are only worried about "How the hell am I going to lift that?" and "I hope I don't look like an ass."

And somewhere in the middle stands the good coach. Hearing all, seeing all, ministering to all.

One flock is not better than the other.

One flock is not more deserving of the coach's time. Like the Methodists say: "The table is set and all are welcome."

Sweat drops stain the mat.

Chalk particles waft and then descend, like incense vapors swung from a thurible.

3-2-1-Go. The service starts ...