The corners echo my footsteps as I walk through the isle. My head hangs by my exhausted neck, in pure surrender.
I am lost.
I found a spot closest to the altar. On the far end of the bench, an old woman on the kneeler in the brink of tears.
I could only stare as the rays from the stained-glass windows painted hues on her face. The flares dazzle every crease on her skin. She’s too deep into her meditation. I have to look away.
The hassock in front of me shows a tear or two on its upholstery. This must be the imprint left by an unfathomable number of begging knees.
I’m beginning to breathe in the essence of this place. The sky-lit high ceilings mimic the heavens. The stone pillars look tired from having to hold these bricks for centuries. These walls resonate decades of worries and endless searching. I could almost hear the distant wails of the souls seeking the glory of their lost youth.
For a moment I forgot that this place stands in the middle of busy streets- of what seems the focal point of the cacophony of this city’s hustle to comply with life’s every demand.
This house must be a miracle, I thought. This place screams insatiable longing yet this is where hope is restored and replenished. This church is a refuge for those condemned by their own realities. I, like all of these people inside this shelter, am a refugee and forever will be.
I kneel down- eyes closed and hands clasped in prayer. My head hangs by my exhausted neck, in pure surrender.
I am found.