I live in the Southern United States, the Bible Belt, where there is a church on every corner, so I am familiar with multitudes of churches. In Ireland, the spires of the churches are the tallest buildings in every skyline. In villages, the church is not only the largest building, it is often in the center of the town, making it the most prominent as well. Churches are called cathedrals, chapels, and abbeys, all of which were built before our country was even born. Some took decades to finish and kept townspeople employed for years and years before their doors ever opened.

I found them all gorgeous. The architecture is jaw-dropping, especially for the time periods in which they were constructed. The stained-glass windows are exquisitely made and the colors draw the eye up, which I am sure was the intent. When the sun filters through them, the light disperses onto the hand-carved wooden benches below, giving an other-worldly glow in the shadows of the dark sanctuary.

The sculptures of the stations of the cross are life-like enough to cause my mind to contemplate each scene. Just walking around the sanctuary reminds me of the sacrifice that saved me. It is a wondrous revelation, all over again. A do-this-in-remembrance-of-me moment. I am a tourist, not a congregant, and yet I feel the familiar presence of God. Each rock, stacked into the walls, is crying out in worship. Each hand carved post or pew points to the one who gave it all.

The doors and gates, which I always find my way to, are open. They invite me inside, or usher me out into the wild places, where God lives. It is hard not to feel surrounded by him in these thin places. Heaven and earth touch. The natural and the spiritual meet.

Out on a mountain, or in the stone cathedral matters not. He meets me in both. His voice is on the wind, or in the tears of supplicants. He resides in these houses of holiness. He is the Holy One; we, his chosen unholy ones, are transformed into cathedrals of skin and bone. Made holy by his blood. Walking, talking cathedrals. He made us his home. Where we go, he is. If we see him in the stained glass and stone, he is there. If we witness him in the sea and the wind, he is there. We cannot be separated from him.

As I approached the lit candles of prayer in each church, I thought of Mom. Her body and brain failing, yet she is his dwelling place. Her weakness does not scare him away. He is in her every breath. Only he knows when the gates and doors will open to usher her into her new house of worship.

The ancient sculpture in front of me depicts Christ with Mary holding him in her arms. Grieving him as only a mother could. This is far from the victorious Savior come to rescue. It is a rarely thought of moment, when his mother’s sorrow spills over into my own. It is before the resurrection, when a very human Christ was suffering at the hands of his own creation. It is here that the prayer candles are lined up. Each one lit for one who is suffering. There are so many. I added my prayers and candle to those already lit. For Mom. For her journey. For what comes next. My eyes looked at the suffering Christ, and I asked him for mercy. For peace. For rest. For my mom.

He answered my prayers with my own tears. A release of my own pain at the slow losing of her. He assured me he has her. At each church, at each prayer station, with each candle I lit, I released more tears. I received more healing. More assurance that his timing is perfect and though we still don’t know how much time is left, he is more than capable of managing it.

Again, I was reminded of the complexity of human emotion. To be having a glorious trip of a lifetime, and taking time to allow my grief some space to breathe. Feelings of adventure and fun, mixed with the tears of loss and uncertainty, can cohabitate in one heart. As much as I would like to separate them and handle each one individually, that is not the season I am in. The suffering Christ reminded me of sorrow, mixed with coming victory. Death beside resurrection. Natural as a part of the spiritual. A thin place indeed.   

P.S. Update on Mom. While she is still declining, she has some days were she rallies and seems to connect. Other days not so much. Her latest x-ray of her leg doesn’t show much change at all, but she doesn’t seem to be in much pain. She is still in her leg brace and will remain so. They have been able to move her to a Geri chair a few times, which means she is laying back but they can push her outside for a few minutes or into the common area. When she is out of her room, she looks all around and seems to be aware of her surroundings. They also put her in regular shirts sometimes which makes her look less like a patient than the hospital gown, and though she doesn’t notice at all, it helps us to see her “dressed” occasionally. When she is awake, she is still smiling at Dad and has a few giggles. Not jabbering much any more, but still eating pureed food some of the time. We just go and spend time with her. Sitting, reading, holding her hand, whatever strikes us at the moment. Thanks for your continued concern and prayers.