When I feel the need to get away from the pressures of the “every day” and reconnect with my Spiritual self, there is a special place I tend to retreat to where I can almost guarantee a bit of open space for repose of my soul and rest for my weary self. It is quiet, peaceful and apart from being with my family, is where I enjoy spending much of my free time...
Even at this early hour, I am greeted by the smell of the boxwood shrubs as I walk up the brick steps. The front doors are heavy and gothic by design and adjacent to them on either side of the doors are two terra cotta urns, filled to over-flowing with maturing hydrangeas of blues and greens, with a hint of red along the petals’ edges. There is a trail flowing over the rims of the urns and down the sides of cascading ivy. On the right-hand door, just above the wrought-iron door handle, there is a sign that makes an appeal to all who enter: “Please turn off all cell phones – Holy Silence.” I am more than happy to comply.
Upon entering, I immediately reach to my left and dip my right hand into the small, tepid font of holy water and bless myself. With my right hand, I make the sign of the cross from the top of my head to my breast, then my left shoulder, over to my right. It may be rote to some who do this out of habit, but I try to recall my baptism every time I enter into this or other sanctuaries.
Having chosen to become a Catholic 10 years ago, I am still fascinated by the icons and smitten with the statues; the flickering flames of the lit candles surround me and awaken something within me. After a moment’s hesitation, I find myself looking for a pew in the back and prepare to sit. Before I do so, however, I make a profound bow toward the front of the church where the Host – an unleavened wafer that has been consecrated by the priest into the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ – is exposed on the altar in a dramatic, gilded monstrance.
I settle into the cold, hard pew but my comfort isn’t an issue as I am again taken by the sight of so many glowing candles: they are incandescent jewel tones of red, blue, and amber glass, reminiscent of the antique Christmas ornaments my mother would hang from our tree when I was growing up. Some of the holders contain votives that remain lit for up to 15 hours, while the larger ones hold candles that stay lit for up to 7 days. Their glimmering is a reminder of prayers said on behalf of loved ones, selves, the flames dancing upward like glowing fingertips illuminating and reaching toward the saintly statues that hover over them, ever-vigilant, standing ready to intercede for those who have so earnestly sought their help and protection.
“Please remember my prayer, Lord, after I have left this holy place.”
These very candle holders have held a great many of my own prayers and it will bring me great comfort to light a candle prior to departure; today, even.
Leading away from the altar candles, I find my eyes drawn to the magnificent stained glass windows. To me, they are works of art. They appear to be angels and archangels, each of the eight windows on the left-hand side of the church as unique and extraordinary as the ones on the right-hand side. Toward the front of the church where the altar is situated, their colors are predominantly cool blues; mid-way, they become significantly warmer in color and by the time my eyes scan to the back of the church, they have become predominantly red. From afar, some of the angels appear surrealistic and ethereal; floating with their eyes closed, their hands, prayerful. Others are abstract in design with dark, sunken eyes and features that are sullen and somewhat eerie.
I walk over for closer inspection and what had resembled a face on the sleeve of a particular angel’s cloak from a distance was only an etched “crease” in its robe…or was it? Further, hand-etched into each panel were names: loved ones being honored in memoriam or otherwise. Benefactors had generously contributed to the fashioning of these objects d’art to unceasingly proclaim the glory of God…or subjectively, witness to the fear of God?
Located in between the stained glass panels are ornately-framed oil paintings which depict the Stations of the Cross; a presentment of Jesus’ last day, His last hours. These particular images of the dolorous passion of my Savior are dark, cheerless, and mournful. They succeed in communicating no joy, nor should they. There is a formal set of prayers that is recited at each station and gazing at this particular collection, I am reminded of this past year’s Good Friday. I was in this very place in contemplation when I noticed a man walking from station to station with his wife, two little girls and their grandmother. They all genuflected reverently before each station and recited the arrow prayer “We adore you, O Christ, and we bless You,” in unison, the little ones included. It was very touching to witness and apparently, this wasn’t the first time this family had practiced this meditation together. How unusual, how lovely.
My personal comfort level keeps me in the back pew, left-hand side, alone with my journal and two pens. Once, when I moved closer to the altar to the very front pew and looked at the subtle-yet-intricate brocade pattern on the pressed linen altar cloth, I felt a bit like Moses – that I should take off my sandals, for I was “standing on holy ground.” What brought on these feelings? The elaborate altar had candelabras flanking either side, each holding seven candles – the number of perfection – and like the candles that were lit 24/7 by the Tabernacle, they all stood like soldiers standing at attention. This was a very important place to me as a Catholic for this is where the Sacrifice of the Mass takes place on a daily basis.
During said Sacrifice, perhaps God’s holy angels spring into being from their still-life postures on the stained glass windows while chanting “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty,” along with all the other unseen cherubim and seraphim. Their grand symphony begins low on this fragile, flawed earth and, rising above the clouds, reaches into the heavenly realm and wafts through the air where our great God breathes in, breathes out.
This – this – is what turns this sacred space into holy ground.
The praises and psalms and songs of everlasting joy that echo throughout time and space are heard for their sincerity, like the prayer of a righteous man. For this very reason, these shoes should come off and I should lie prostrate on the ground; it is a holy and extraordinary place indeed. Had my worthiness been determined on these facts, then my admittance into the Catholic faith 10 years ago should have been suspect; why I was granted access to this faith was beyond me and even now, I continue to be in awe.
There is something about the antiquity of Catholicism that not only drew me in so long ago, but has kept me near ever since. I worship here with my family, but above all, this building has become my safe place, where I have literally run to, alone, when I am hurting, confused, in need of rest; when I am only desirous of spiritual company in fellowship with God and in the communion of saints. I’ve lit candles, prayed many prayers, cried many tears, sought much comfort from my holy friend and counsel from God in these pews through various trials.
Occasionally, when I arrive distraught, the consolations to my heart are almost palpable. I oft times leave in great comfort after only brief periods of respite and can certainly understand why I am drawn to such a church named “Our Lady of Sorrows.”
Aside from this beautiful House of God, I am immersed in a faith that continues to intrigue me and renews my spirit with each passing day; even more so when I have access to such a holy place in the early morning hours. It is quiet, contemplative, peaceful and differs diametrically to my daily life.
As Thomas Merton once so aptly said in his book, Seeds of Contemplation:
“Let there always be quiet, dark churches in which people can take refuge....Houses of God filled with His silent presence. There, even when they do not know how to pray, at least they can be still and breathe easily.”To those sacred words, I can only respond with an “amen” as I blow out the stick that lit the prayer candle and plant it into the jar filled with sand to further ensure the flame is extinguished. I place my fingertips to my mouth for a kiss, and then press them against the feet of Jesus, who presides over this particular altar set in an unusual bas-relief of His Most Sacred Heart.
As I make my way out of the church, I push myself through the same heavy door that welcomed me in and I face the morning sun.
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