We traveled one sunny morning to a small town called Monreale and walked up flights of stone stairs to its center. Because of the early hour and the morning’s exertion, I hadn’t heard where we were going. I stepped into a cold, dark church, which sent chills up my spine and made my hair stand on end. Our group filed into rows of pine chairs with straw-woven seats, while writing in notebooks, listening to a guide.
I couldn’t sit. Here I was in the most beautiful church I’ve ever seen and I yearned to touch it: Cold stone floors, old stained wooden confessional booths, marble columns heightening the cathedral’s grandeur. Damp air clung to the walls as a tiny ray of light broke through a top window on the right of the cathedral. Its walls and ceiling were all in 24-karat gold. Mosaics shimmered in the light.
I live in a world where money is the most important thing. In American society, we work constantly to live comfortably, or we steal, cheat, or gamble to have more money. But in 1189, when William II finished the cathedral, he spent his money on God’s house. I was humbled.
Two angels adorned the sides of a large mosaic of Jesus at the top of the front of the church. Gabriel is on the right, and Michael is on the left. Above the tops of the columns, lining the inside right and left sides of the church were mosaics of the creation of the world and of Bible stories. Gold glistened at every turn, every blink of an eye. I was seeing a movie of the creation of the universe before me. Mosaics of God showed him making the air, land, water, solar systems, birds and fish, animals, and man, and then resting on the seventh day. Taxpayers were being thrown out of churches; a man was being raised from the dead; Eve introduced to Adam, and both to origin of original sin. All the churches I had ever been in seemed dreary and musty, but here I was in a storybook filled with detailed illustrations. Had I grown up in Monreale, church might have actually been fun and I might have paid attention.
My eyes fixed on a priest listening to a confession. A soft light shown down over him, enhancing his power of forgiveness. His eyes locked on his confessor, while releasing understanding. What a great photograph this would be! I was witnessing a private moment that usually takes place behind closed doors and I wanted it all for myself. I didn’t know if I should, because it might offend the priest. But when I saw Rick take one without a flash, I grinned and did the same.
I
walked over to a statue of Mary smiling down on her visitors. Rows of lilies
sat at her feet; the smell of posies filled the air. Blue and white mosaics
danced behind her, camouflaging her ivory skin. I lowered my head to think,
but was interrupted by the hoards of people around me. I scurried away to hide
my feelings.
When I met one of my friends in the front of the church, Sherri Mc Gloin, she saw my glossed eyes.
"What’s wrong? Are you OK?" she asked, putting her arm over my shoulder.
I couldn’t answer at first. There was a hurricane in the pit of my stomach, sucking all my emotions, writhing and gaining speed. It accelerated up my throat, into my lungs, and through my head, filling my eyes, releasing energy in tears.
"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," I said to Sherri. "I’m so overwhelmed with this place. My mother wanted me to confess before I left to ensure a safe trip, but I didn’t have time. I didn’t want to make the time. Those priests are here and now’s my chance."
"Then go over and confess," Sherri said. "You have time before we leave."
"I can’t. I’d feel stupid. He doesn’t speak English. I wouldn’t know what to do. Besides, I haven’t confessed in so long, and to do it now in front of my peers would be too embarrassing," I said.
Sherri kept encouraging me.
"I’ll even take a picture of you doing it so you’ll always remember it. Go ahead."
But I couldn’t. I was frozen to the floor. Our group was leaving the church, and I didn’t want to be left behind. Sherri offered to come back with me, alone, and I consoled myself with that option.
I felt guilty for not confessing and I didn’t know why. I’d grown distant from my faith since entering college. With so many new things and experiences there, I didn’t have time for faith. Why go to church when I could sleep an hour later on Sundays?
Yet, there I stood in the church biting my nails, the exit in view. Why was this happening to me now?
The Monreale Cathedral was built on love and faith, and it had reminded me of mine. I realized my faith had gotten me through tragedies and peer pressure. The cathedral reminded me how my faith makes life more fulfilling, giving it layers. I realized how much I had missed it.
My faith is my glasses. It gives me new ways of looking at things and a clearer understanding of life. It helps me to understand people and get along with them better. I find peace, patience, and a safe haven through my religion.
I never thought I’d find something I lost long ago in a church of a distant country.