bones
When I was a child, there was a monastery my family visited. I was young; I knew only the quiet I found there, the peace worn by its inhabitants. It was never busy. The days were hot. Death could be found in old creek beds, fossils from when once a raging river flowed but now only dirt so dry it became dust in my tiny hands remained.
I would watch the evening sky grow dark over the heavy gate. I remember the feeling of things that clawed just beyond it. The monks would console me, saying the demons could not enter.
But darkness never needs a face to stare at us.
As a child, the grounds seemed endless. Ancient creek beds littered the borders where the earth sank into scorched wasteland. Something else entirely waited on the other end of the property. The ground grew greener. Sparse crops were grown when possible. Flowers painted the landscape. Trees created a thin barrier. Indeed, it would appear to anyone just glancing that the ground simply dropped off and the world ended beyond this illusory ridge line.
But children wander.
I remember the first time I saw it, the ruins of this old church. I remember I stopped. My breaths became intentional, as if the air was made of more than oxygen. It stood, skeletal, a few partial walls, a cross, a floor. Stones worn soft by wind and time. I remember the first step I took inside it. My foot never felt so heavy. Mine were the only tracks in the dust.
I remember standing inside these crumbling ruins, no roof, no door, the cross stood on its Eastern wall. Beyond it was infinity. The ruins sat upon a cliff. Wind whipped at my skirt, blew my head covering away. The expanse before me stole my breath. Verdant hills, void of trees, laid upon the endless horizon.
I remember crouching in a corner, feeling the smallest I’d ever felt. But it was never fear that filled me.
I would return there, many times, to this relic. I let my breath be taken. I stood until I could bare the raging wind no longer. I remember how I would close my eyes and see the walls and the icons in my mind. I remember how I did not feel so alone with the saints surrounding me.
I remember how I sat in the bones of this church and my belief built it back around me.
Great evils took place in that monastery. Sadnesses beyond explanation were borne of its “holiness”. But I sat in the bones of that church—a child, ignorant. I sat, and my faith kept me whole.
I do not know that child anymore. I remember that church. I remember the wind, the green valley, the ruins—but I see only bones now. Where is the faith that rebuilt the chapel? The voices of the saints are but the whisper of a memory.
I sit in the bones of the church and I am bare.
Lord, have mercy.