We took a drive on Friday, just needing sunshine and space. Fresh air. Ice cream. “Let’s go see the sunset,” my husband said, and we drove to Chapel Point — a great place to feel both opened up and small.
My feelings on faith are complicated. But there’s something about a church that still resonates with me — a key clicking into a lock.
I’ve never been inside St. Ignatius, a Catholic parish founded in 1641 — one that still thrives today. I have stood along its brick paths and gazed out over its cemetery on the hill, overlooking the Port Tobacco River. I have been in its shadows.
Everything I touch each day is chrome, glass, wood. We value “new.” I do, too. But there is power in the past. Standing next to the centuries-old church reminded me of all that the parish has weathered. Coronavirus (and live-streaming of Catholic Mass! Oh, if the Jesuits could see them now) … well, that’s just another page in a long story.
We whispered to the kids about sacred ground, tiptoeing only along the edges. We watched the sun sink lower. Ollie plucked a dandelion and made his wishes.
And we walked out — mosquito-bitten, grateful — hand in hand.