A prompt from Felixflautajrpoetry.

“Describe a place you visited often, what you heard there, who you wanted to become. Write in the second person. Describe it to yourself. Describe yourself.”

Even at thirteen, fourteen, you were questioning, a Doubting Thomas, and you held more interest in the artistry, the pageantry of the faith — the stained glass windows and the gravitas of the priests. The crescendo of the songs, the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. The Latin. Always the Latin.

Yet you wanted to believe. You always wanted to believe. You wanted to feel something. You wanted to feel it in your heart like your mother did when her fingers moved across the rosary beads, but you never did.

You felt reverence in other ways. Your heart felt big — so big, too big for your chest — when you drove through the mountains with your family or you passed through with friends. When you stood against the ocean or watched a storm come through.

You felt grandeur in the ways that made you feel small and reminded you we’re just infinitesimally tiny. But in that church, in those pews, you look at that crucifix and you don’t seem to see it.

But you go. You go every Sunday. You go each Sunday and you go those holy days of obligation. Your fingers move across the rosary beads.

And yet, you don’t feel it in your heart.  Not at the stained glass windows nor the gravitas of the priests. Not even the crescendo of the songs. Even when it came time for the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. Or even the Eucharist.

You wanted to feel the holiness — the reverence — when you walked, head bowed, into a cathedral. But it was just a building. It was beautiful, yes, but you didn’t feel God there.

You felt God in other ways: standing at the ocean, looking as far past the water as you could; driving through mountains; and when you flew. Any time the world reminded you how small you were.

But a church, even a cathedral, that wasn’t it. Those were man-made. Something manufactured to make us feel something, and you’d rather feel God out there somewhere.

But you were young then, you were thirteen, fourteen. Questioning. Doubting. And small. Even the sound of the choir did not shrink you even smaller than you already were.

The metallic clanking of the thurible at the priest’s side as the fragrant scent of frankincense wafts toward you, and you did not grow more expansive, nor did you shrink.

You doubted, but still, you plunged forward with a faith you weren’t sure you believed in.

Isabelle Palerma