St. Francis toppled over. The thud of stone against wood was loud despite the echo of the siren. Pausing, Brother Peter stumbled in his prayer. In a circle of bowed heads, aacolyte looked up.

Once the statue sat dwarfed in a garden of pale green ferns. Sitting between a milk glass lamp that might work and handmade yarn basket, the statue been purchased at a yard sale. That was a long time ago, when there were still ferns. Acidic dust blown on the wind swirled through the kneeling.

Knees pressed into unforgiving clay, Peter returned to his prayers. His strong confident voice trembled. The faithful grew restless. The siren sounded again. Someone started to cry.

Sobs fell like raindrops. Suddenly Sister Magdalena rushed from the prayer circle. Hands shaking, she set the statue upright. Each word grew stronger than the one before. Sobs stilled into obedient sniffles and silence. Brother Peter prayed.