Doxology

The library was closed, so she walked to the church. She wasn't a religious girl, but she liked to think she was good nonetheless. In Rome, her classmates had purchased alcohol, gotten sick, made mistakes with one another. She'd sat in the hallway of the hotel writing in her journal.

She had never been to this church before. She remembered the ancient ones in Rome, with their incredible vaulted ceilings and their stone archways and their old, musty smell. She'd been filled with awe, despite her disbelief. She had even been tempted to pray, but didn't, because it wasn't right. She didn't belong.

That was when she'd first begun to think of a church as a place of sanctuary, a home that was always open to the homeless or heavy-hearted. To those who held God in their spirits. She wasn't one of those, but maybe today the building could hold her in its arms, shield her from the sun and the dangers of the street, at least until the library opened. She knocked on the door.

There was no answer. This church was closed on a Sunday. She shook her head and headed back home in defeat. She wondered how people could have such unfaltering faith.