I dreamed the church was a train station

I'm standing in the nave, but the pews are benches and there's a departure board flickering over the altar. People are buying tickets to places I've never heard of—Cana, Bethany, a town called 'Quiet Hour.' I try to announce the next hymn but my voice comes out as a whistle. The organist is polishing a headlight. I wake up thinking maybe that's what faith is: a platform, not a destination.