{"componentChunkName":"component---src-templates-story-js","path":"/story/virginia-verity-n/","result":{"pageContext":{"data":{"id":"-7c353a16-039c-572c-b30c-54f86b4d0d41","authorFirstName":"Natalia","storyTitle":"Virginia Verity","photo":{"asset":{"url":"https://cdn.sanity.io/images/nr9digz2/production/5fec6779ec011447ea2791b8d6bcd56ec7f6cf6e-1800x1125.jpg"}},"audio":{"asset":{"url":"https://cdn.sanity.io/files/nr9digz2/production/9ac512f63c9294eb9f328f7f6466e248e9535d91.mp3"}},"secondLanguageAudio":{"language":"English","audio":null},"school":{"name":"Appomattox Regional Governor's School for the Arts and Technology","city":"Petersburg","location":"Virginia"},"tags":["Friendship and Kindness","Spirituality and Faith"],"_rawText":[{"_key":"035218851d89","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"4106594227210","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"The memory shakes me in awe, wets my eyes, and everything. The mountains, their maple turrets, a pitch explosion against the stygian sky; me, thinner and faster then, barely fifteen, running downhill past masses of autumn olive. They call it \"reborn\" when you find Christ. I'm not sure it was Jesus I heard in the shrubbery, but the crickets' chirps roared up like bubbles in a newborn's throat, and it occurred to me I'd unearthed true breath."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"9a508cb1f2cd","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"a7e3955ecb5f0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"I'm not saved, but it was my second summer at Craig Springs when I learned I irrevocably believed in God. It was a liminal epiphany, striking me as I returned from the Monroe cabin to the Glass House, where the camp dance was winding down for worship. I'd left my friends to reapply deodorant. The Monroe cabin bunks were unclear in velvet shrouds. I was quick out the door. Next thing I remember is busted Chucks smacking six times on six steps. Then the wind started up, squalling my cheeks. I squinted and shivered, pieces of darkness pelleting my arms and thighs. Those God-ordained cricket chirpings swirled among Old Spice, wet grass, and dust, like Christ, risen off the gravel, pulsing sponge under fissured tree bark, hydrogen rippling out of the immaculate tessellations. I learned to call stars \"ancient petrichor.\" The lights around camp swelled, and I heaved in the air around me. Pure life in my muscles, like communion wine—blood they drink for heaven."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"feb5833460be","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"c28a8ceb9a030","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"When I arrived outside the Glass House, I told my friends I believed in God, spirits, and everything. One told me if I ever had questions about anything, I should ask him. He's very theological and looks the part—square-faced with wire-rimmed glasses. I've never talked to him about God; I don't talk to many about it at all. I have much to learn regarding the Lord, the ghosts that encircle Appalachia's Craig County, the bluer mountains farther east, the James, its fall line, its grand dilation to Chesapeake, brackish like how the line between Earth and sacrament is thinned when you pray or watch constellations crest upon the zenith of a summer night."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"c5e265c3cfb8","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"0738b420dd5e0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"I've never prayed enough, yet twice a week I find myself at the Unitarian Universalist church. It's a great place to broaden your spiritual horizons or just to sing, hold a stranger's hand, and gaze past the rafters. It's Sunday evening when I write these words, so the voices of sanctuary are fresh in my throat. I believe I had true breath this morning, like I did on the mountain. And last Wednesday, after our monthly potluck, I went to the memorial garden with my friend. Vehicles rushed toward the river, seen through the drying azalea leaves, and wind spiraled among the oaks above. In sleeves down to my knuckles, the wooden bench's armrest dug into my ribs. There was light within the Carrillon's turret, a historical belltower in the heart of Richmond. For years, the building had been under renovation. It was good to see it lit."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"b19bf2864fb6","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"cabe35c18c640","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"Church members are strewn in ash over the mulch of this garden, and every spring, pitchers from Water Communion are poured onto azalea blooms, rivulets dripping out of gaps in the petals. The shrubbery's hues reminded me of my Craig Springs epiphany, and I breathed true, the taste of jambalaya still registering. The streetlamps melted into leaves and dust. I smiled at Fennec, and part of me resented the darkness, twilight now so fleeting as November pressed on. I knew it was sacred, though, that we are sacred. I knew the sun bestows summer every year. The darkness reveals the stars. The velvet cold suffocates the crickets, so new generations will rise, like Christ, out of the soil. I'll meet new ghosts. God falls out of the stars. Night remains holy."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"751f852b78e7","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"f97747ad42ea0","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\n"}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"}]}}},"staticQueryHashes":["3309388390","890781507"]}