It could have been any location; a train station, airport or a football stadium.

This happened to be in my local Church in Clinton, MA. Not any “old Church” by any description. Walking through the huge wooden handmade doors you might be mistaken for entering a medieval Christian passion reenactment. The sound of the choir singing Gregorian chant uplifts a soul immediately; each inflection of waves penetrating the heart, changing the spirit and relieving the sharp pain of the winter chill from my cheeks.

Ears now replete with all their needs, my eyes are now bombarded with a festival of beauty, years in the making. Wooden pews glow with years of patina and polishing of praying elbows and listening seats. Overlooked by frescos depicting the passion of the Christ, they follow me down the aisle as I approach the stunning high altar; never demolished by crazy post Vatican II whitewashing designs. Here all remains as it was always supposed to be. Eye candy for the searching soul, overstocked with statues of our favorite Saint, bible scenes all a prequel to finding my own spiritual companion for the journey.

We all know when we have walked through the door which has been held open for so long. A door with patience and warmth and love behind it. Only waiting for us to cross the threshold.

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