::The First Holy Place::

The first holy place was Christ the King Church. As a tiny baby I was baptized in that church on Easter Sunday.

With Holy water, oil, salt, prayers and ashes, Monsignor Fletcher declared me “marked as Christ’s own forever” that day. I have been His ever since.

Even as a little girl, the church’s architecture amazed me. It looms up out of the firmament, sandy gold bricks coursed in towers and spires, with sets of huge doors, matched on each side of the taller central spire.

It still makes my eyes wet when I see it.

I pull open those heavy doors and step inside, time seems to stop. Standing in the Nave, the faint aroma of Frankincense lingers and cools the air.

Move inside the to church proper, bless myself with holy water that’s held in copper lined vessels made by my daddy.

Breathe the stillness. Beeswax candles smell like holiness. There’s a bank of them on the left side, in front of the small altar to Saint Francis. Get close to this gathering of little flames flickering in ruby glass cups, the scent of burnt matches mingles with the candle wax.

The atmosphere is quiet, shady. But the altar is straight ahead, beckoning with light from the tabernacle. God is present.

The tall stained glass windows down each side are framed from beneath by stations of the cross in brass relief.

The long oak pew I slide into is weathered smooth, marked by decades of believers.
Tears come as I kneel there and remember, this is where I was declared as God’s own.

It’s been decades, but I am finally realizing the weight and the miracle and the blessing in this.

God’s own. God’s girl. I am His. And I am back. A lifetime of dreams, abuse, love, loss, brokenness … the winding, rocky road has brought me home.