vignettes

I've never had an appreciation for modern Catholic architecture. 

This year I entered the incomplete Sagrada Familia in Barcelona and felt mature and fresh at the same time.  I let rainbow lights dance on my cheeks.  I was inside of something being born. Age-old poliphonies forced their way out of high definition speakers.  An usher told me I couldn't take pictures, not in this part of the Church. I should also be quiet, she indicated with a finger pressed to her stern lips. This section was reserved for prayer.

Of all the Cathedrals I've visited in Spain.  With their Gothic flamengero architecture and vaulted ceilings and smells of incense.  With their relics of saints and holy statues and representations of wealthy bishops.  With their choir lofts that maintained traditional social structure by cutting the church in half and preventing the poor from seeing the sagrada forma.  Not one has told me to put away my camera.  Or to stop talking.  Or to pray.

I smiled at the usher, absolutely delighted.  And kneeled down to say an Our Father in perfect, sacred silence. 

And that is how you spell hope.

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I've never seen Notre Dame football slip into the number one position.  I've never seen Touchdown Jesus sneak his way onto the cover of Sports Illustrated.  And I feel guilty, or fake sometimes, knowing that as much as that means to me right now, it does not mean as much as that girl beside me whose blue and gold blood had been passed down from her grandfathers on both sides.  But her smile and her tears and the feeling of knowing I made somehow made the right decision three years ago is enough, isn't it?

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I've never received advice from Little Sister before.  I've never been more satisfied with a piece of advice.  I've never been laughed at for thinking too much.  I've never been so humbled by simplicity, not from her.   I've never been more thankful for the age of 16. 

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I've never had a turkey-less Thanksgiving.  I should would be flying home right now, with crazy Asians and half-Italians waiting with open arms.  With nine different kinds of pie to bake.  With guitar duets to learn and four-part harmonies to write.  With family pictures to secretely dread, but actually kind of look forward to.  With anticipation for that magical thing that happens when cinnamon is mixed with pumpkin.  With a million kisses and hugs from twenty different people. 


Until now. 

(but I think I'll be ok)