I picked up The Pillars of the Earth because I liked to read whatever crossed my path.
I had no idea I’d fall in love with cathedrals through its pages.

I read about flying buttresses and craftsmanship that surpassed my understanding of buildings.
I absorbed the stories of people who found God through the creation of living, breathing art-homes for Him.

The wood, the curve, the danger of raising such a masterpiece haunted my heart forward
until I sat in that cathedral in my mind more than a hundred times.
There, I let the imagined space cleanse and sanctify my peace.

Sometimes I slept on its pews.
Other times I stood in a pool of heavenly light streaming through the arches—
incense curling upward, angels singing high into the vaulted ceilings.

I ran my hand over wood worn smooth by devotion
and cried my tears to Mary when I finally admitted my heart was broken—
without ever having traveled there at all.

I imagine I wouldn’t leave if I ever stepped into one in person.
How could I abandon what has already changed me—
what has built an inner sanctum from its very presence?

Some places shouldn’t exist, and yet they do.
Such are the halls of the heart, and the corridors of the mind.

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