Saint Mark’s Basilica
I walk in and am awed by
the size and the grandeur of the church.
I have learned all
about the Catholic churches in Italy
from my art history
classes, but no picture or history book
could ever portray the
majesty and power that this church has.
The floor was made of
marble and the walls reached up
in praise of the Lord, arms
arching into a ceiling encrusted with gold
and mosaics and
paintings that told the history of the very spot I stood on.
The alter was intricate
and beautiful, covered with candles, and stood proud,
as if Time had never touched
it like it touched the rest of the city.
I have never been
religious, but I found myself on my knees
clasping my hands and
gazing up at Jesus looking down on me.
How could one not be
religious when in a place like this?
I thought of the only
prayer I knew – the Hail Mary.
Hail Mary,
full of Grace.
My voice is among many.
My breath is the same breath
as those who have come
before me hundreds of years ago,
also on their knees, praying,
begging for God to listen.
The lord is with thee.
God is in here. Even if
I don’t believe,
He is here, if He
exists at all.
This is a kingdom on
earth; it must have been made
from God’s hands
himself. It is that magnificent.
In this church, it is
easy to believe in God.
The architecture is so
amazing that it makes one
feel insignificant,
powerless, mortal. I have never
felt more worldly than
I do now – staring up at the ceiling,
a golden pathway to a
heaven I have never known until now.
Blessed art thou,
among women,
and blessed is the
fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.
Voices echo in the air
in such a way
that my own breath
sounds holy coming from my mouth.
The reverberations make
me sound powerful
but the size of the
church makes me feel insignificant.
What did the organs
sound like long ago?
What did the priests
sound like
shouting to be heard by
those crowded
in the nave? What did
the incense burners
look like swinging like
a pendulum
from the ceiling as
high up as heaven?
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
I wonder what those in
the past prayed for.
What did their hearts
long for?
What did they ask God
to do for them,
cure for them, forgive
for them?
What sins did they
choke out
in the confession
booths?
What did they hope for?
now,
and at the hour
of our death.
I have never felt as mortal
as I did while in this
church.
It is both magical and
haunting.
There is a promise of
an afterlife,
but the guarantee of
the end of this life.
I have always wanted to
kill myself.
My depression gets so
bad that the only way
to end the pain is to
murder it. But this church
made me feel so alive
and so mortal.
They promise an
afterlife, an eternity, a forever.
But this is the only
life we get on earth.
This is the only life I
get to live in my body.
I pray that I stop
wanting to kill myself.
I pray that I can live
the rest of my life
without swallowing
another bottle of pills
or putting the gun to
my head. I pray that God
takes away the pain that
makes mortality so excruciating.
I pray that I remember
how to feel mortal
during the times I want
to leave the earth.
I pray that I get to
stay alive long enough
to come back to this
church and thank God
for letting me live.
Amen.
