The last time I tried to talk to my Dad in church, the doors of the place were locked, and the church was closed to the public. That was earlier in the winter, which made the disappointment a little keener, having traversed the chilly path on an icy day.
I’m not sure why I seek out a church in which to talk to him. He never much liked church, at least he didn’t seem to like it. On some level it must have brought him comfort because he went for the majority of his life, likely on the insistence of Mom, but still – he would only maintain something he didn’t truly like for so long. And so I find him there – or try to find him there, as I’m not sure he is with me in the House of God.
On a recent Tuesday, I took my lunch time and walked up the hill to St. Mary’s, which was blessedly open again. It was also entirely empty, which made for a more peaceful moment. I slid into the last pew on the right, where light poured in through stained glass, and a haze hovered in the air – likely the remnants of the Stations of the Cross Friday service.
The comforting scent of incense hung there like a veil between worlds – a wispy web of faded smoke, the smallest particles floating in shafts of stained-glass-shaded light. I hurriedly ran through the prayers I knew in my head, then attempted to speak silently to my father, though my heart knew he wasn’t there. The terror I felt in that same space, when he was in his final days, no longer gripped me; there was a duller, more muted ache in its place. One is sharper, but quicker; one is gentler, but longer.
