Jewels of Pain
By Margaret D. Whittle
God had taken the one thing that was precious to her and destroyed it, so being the good little Parochial Schooled vassal that she was, in her mind she was just following his directive: An Eye for an Eye. There was to be no blame. There would only be retribution, which is what brought her to the church.
She threw the Molotov cocktail hard, fast and without regret. It arched high against the Sunday morning sky and since her aim was as true as her purpose, the crashing of the stained glass window came as no surprise to the parishioners gathered on the lawn, seemingly frozen in a tableau of disbelief.
The multicolored glass depicting Mary of Nazareth in the stable, gazing lovingly at her Child in his swaddling clothes, shattered in what seemed to be slow motion. The rush of heat from the subsequent explosion began to fuse the colors once in the pane, into brightly colored gems that began to fall tear-like on the earth below.
Topaz gold had been the color of her sons hair-Sapphire blue was the color of his eyes-Ruby red the color of the blood that ran down his face when the lightning bolt sent by God had struck him. Revenge while neither sweet nor meant to ease her pain, would serve as her return volley in the game of destruction being played.