In the basement of an elegantly rustic church was a soundproofed room tucked away like the childish things in compartments therein.  It would have taken a curious visitor or a regular congregant to know the place, so concealed was the primitive room in the symmetrical bowels of the otherwise pretentious architecture.
        It was in the youthful hedonism of this nursery that Maggie conducted her class of one student.  Freshly wed to the only man under the age of thirty in the congregation, Maggie was assimilated into her father-in-law’s church as the instructor of its only youth: a ruddy, tousled county boy of a passionate, naïve thirteen.
        Maggie’s fondness for the Appalachian rain had placed her honeymoon trek on a certain leg in Blue Ridge. The gentle shower on her first Sunday back to church seemed to bridge that hallowed week with her life to come.  Her husband hurried across the gravel parking lot to an awning before the basement entrance at the church’s rear, pulling his blazer around him to adequately keep a new but plain shirt dry.  Maggie let the burden of her teaching supplies slow her into a longer indulgence in the cool drops on her cheeks, forearms, lips, and fingertips.
        The sight of her dripping pupil pleased Maggie, and the two dawdled in discussion about the rain as the teacher prepared her materials.  Eventually she directed the conversation to the day’s topic of St. Francis of Assisi.   The youth was attentive and inquisitive as always.
       “His friends would make fun of him for not playing sports with the others in his younger years,” Maggie explained.  “They would ask if he planned to marry, to which he said, ‘Yes, a fairer bride than any you have ever seen.’ He never married, except to his lifestyle; to ‘lady poverty,’ as he said.”
       The youth could not make sense of this.  “’Lady poverty’?  But why would he want to give up everything when so many people even today are born with nothing and die for it?  Didn’t he want a chance at life?”
       “He had everything he needed to survive, and certainly once the pope gave him permission to start his own religious order, he always had a place to live.”
       “So he had everything he needed, but nothing he wanted?”
       “He didn’t want anything.  All he wanted was to serve God.”
       The youth seemed to think this valid, but came to another question when he remembered other parts of the lesson. “And his reward was those wounds that smelled like flowers?”
       “The stigmata are considered marks of holiness.  Some people have even faked stigmata for the closeness to God they resemble.”  
       “Seems kinda sick to me that pain is what you’re aiming for.  Not sure how many people you’d get in church if they were promising stigmata to the faithful instead of eternal life.”
        As Maggie gently laughed at this, she moved to bring her hands from her lap to gather her school supplies.  Forgetting about her finger’s new adornment, she deeply scratched her leg with her diamond wedding ring, but any wince she made was lost in her laughter.  Once her papers were neatly stacked, a quietude lush with the roof’s running rain enveloped the room.  When its inhabitants had both taken notice of it, they smiled at each other.
        “I mean listen to that rain,” the boy said.  “I don’t need to play in it, but I sure want to.  But say I become real faithful, going to church all the time instead.  If I’m really good, I not only miss the opportunity to play in the rain, but I get a bunch of bleeding sores.  It’s like getting spanked for eating your vegetables.”
        “Haven’t they taught you about altruism in school yet?  Animals sacrifice themselves for their young.  Don’t you ever make sacrifices for your friends or parents?”
        “Sacrifices are fine, but what good is spending all your time in pain for service?  Why choose to suffer for one you love to the point that you never even experience the fruits of their love?  You lose your time.  You lose yourself.  I could never lose myself for anybody’s service.”
         A strange hush materialized until both in that primal room were tacitly aware of the absence of the rainfall’s sound.
A sonic jolt stopped the heart of Maggie for the moment she whirled around to face what sounded like a massive vault sealing shut.  It had been the sound of Maggie’s husband forcefully turning the metal handle of the room’s door.  His figure, robed in that spotless white shirt, now loomed on the threshold:
        “It’s time for the service to begin.”