Her Prayers

She left work at the small shop each evening and headed towards the cathedral. The massive stone church, over half a millennium old, dominated the city skyline. Soaring high over every other structure, it could be seen for kilometers around. Walking briskly down the cobblestone alleys and streets, she would approach the awe-inspiring monument, glide up the 18 smooth marble steps from the street to the front entrance, duck under the permanent temporary scaffolding — as much a part of the cathedral as anything else from the perpetual maintenance — open the giant door and step inside into the cool air.

She would find an empty pew and sit. Clearing her mind as she looked at the delicate ornate ancient golden art in the apse. Typically, a priest moved back and forth there about his own business.

Finally, kneeling then, she would begin to pray. She did not pray for God to deliver worldly possessions like a carnival magician, of course, but instead she found great comfort and peace through her daily discussions and relationship with God.

Hers, like others, was a small community. Her parents had been Christian refugees, fleeing here when she was a very small girl. No memories survived of her birth country for her, only old photos. She knew this country was her home, but also felt apart from it, conflicted as an immigrant, and even more so, since her father’s passing and her mother’s illness. Sometime soon, she would be all that was left of the only family she had known.

She knew that she would be able to take care of herself. The job she had was enough to live and carry on. But, what she needed was strength, confidence, and determination. For her true desire was happiness, like the happiness her parents had had together. She needed to change, skip out of this rut. God was good. She listened.

Copyright © 2014  Eric Schweitz

Picture linked via The Heart of Writing

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