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The chapel.

There are stained glass windows, and dark corridors patterned with multi hued light, here at my feet. Here is the pipe organ; there, a Holy Bible open to Isaiah; there, atop a hymnal, someone’s reading glasses. It is quiet and still, and peaceful in my soul. I wander, filled with reverence and awe. And sometimes, many times, I am full of something much less than reverence. More rebel than saintly woman.


God loves us for who we are, not for how holy we look. I wander, taking pictures. I remember Poland. The beautiful chapel we wandered through in Krakow. I remember Scotland. Glasgow. The Gothic cathedral, and its dark towers rising. We laugh, sniggering as quietly as we can in this vast, echoey space of a chapel. This and that. Whatever random thing pops into our heads and makes us both dissolve into laughter.

Autumn leaves rustling across the pavement, whirling, swirling, across our paths and the empty parking lots. Here for the sake of being here, in God’s great outdoors. Not for this. Not for that. But for fellowship, a little more strength to keep on each day. I understand places like this. I know places like this, like the back of my hand. It is like my WWU, though more holy, in some ways.

This is a place of peace. I am not afraid of the words coming out of my mouth. I do not fear my lack-of-tiptoeing, natural self. At my ease, down this street and that. Down this pathway. Through these buildings. Easy sway, easy steps, air warm in the growing breeze, swaying the cacophony of trees. The gardens. The many, many gardens. Ease, and sway, to be myself. No pressure, pressing, hard against my chest. No fear catching at the throat. Just peace. Warm air, cloudy sky above, rustling trees and gardens surrounding. And the serenity. The serenity of this chapel. And the wind-tossed trees beyond.