I remember laying on the ground
of the pews at my aunt’s funeral.
I named my stuffed animal after her
once she passed away.
I still have it.
I sat between my grandmother and grandfather,
pressed against the wooden pews
when I stayed over for the weekend
at their parish.
My grandma would reach into the briefcase
of her purse
and pull out a variety pack of sweets—
her first-aid kit of caretaking—
and hand me a Certs mint during communion
so I wouldn’t feel left out.
She did this every single time
until I had my first communion.
The mint melted in my curiosity
of what would come next—
when it would be my time.
I missed the Certs.
But I was too scared
to admit it out loud
to anyone.
One of my all-time favorite things
is to walk slowly
into a quiet church—
more than to go for mass.
I sit in the pews,
kneel when I need to.
I feel more church there
without the words.
In the silence—
without the people,
without the misunderstandings,
without the complications.
I never feel alone.
What lives there,
when no one is physically there,
is larger than the ocean.
When I can,
I walk into the church
where my grandparents were married—
in the rectory,
since my grandfather was Baptist.
Down the street from our family home.
Generations alongside me
in the pews—up and down.
I think of the masses,
the sacraments,
the funerals,
all the rituals.
The prayers of hope and fear.
The quiet poses of escape.
Surrounded in silence
and stained-glass glowing.
Knowing so many family members
three generations at least
sat there—right next to me.
I am not alone in that church.
Or ever at all—
they are with me.
Church—
finding it.
Finding my church.