the pro-Catholic half. It was as if he pulled himself together and solidified somehow before he entered the church, his steps slowing as he reached the front doors. I slipped in behind him, curious to know what it felt like to be in St Raphaelâs again after so many years. I had been there a few times as a child and it was, by far, the most beautiful Catholic church in the county. A high dome soared above floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows and the floors were polished marble. The lighting was muted and red votive candles caused shadows to dance across the paneled walls. The sanctuary smelled like melting wax. There were no electric votives at St Raphaelâs. This was old-school Catholicism and most of the parishioners were pretty old-school themselves.
The church was empty except for one young Hispanic woman who sat in the front pew as her fingers flew over her rosary beads. If St Raphael was anything like the Catholic church my family attended on the other side of town, membership had soared in recent years, rising with the Mexican population.
Calvano dipped his fingers into the holy water that shimmered in a basin near the front door and automatically crossed himself, a gesture now found only among older church members. I figured he would head for the side door that led to a small courtyard and the rectory where the priests and nuns lived, but Calvano surprised me. He walked about halfway down the middle aisle, then knelt on one knee, crossed himself, rose, and entered one of the pews. He knelt again and began to pray.
I cannot actually read peopleâs minds. I have had more success with memories. But I can often share in what people are feeling and I found the fallout from Calvanoâs prayers to be extraordinary. I was sitting in the row behind him when I felt a blanket of cool, comforting air settle in around me. I felt compelled to look up and, as I did so, the light from the votive candles seemed to dance across the jewel tones of the stained-glass windows, sending droplets of fiery red, golden yellow and sapphire blue spinning over the white marble floor. My whole being filled with a warm, comforting liquid, a feeling I had not experienced since I was a young child and my grandmother held me in her lap. I felt a glow somewhere deep inside me and my greatest fear â that I might never be able to leave this plane â disappeared under its power. It was as if infinite possibilities had been offered to me and all I had to do to obtain them was to believe. I was rocked by the sensation. I felt comforted and exalted and powerful all at the same time. I felt renewed and humbled and honored.
I do not think Calvano felt what I did. I think that only someone in my state of being could experience what I had. But I was deeply grateful to know that being the way I was, trapped between the living and the dead, in an existence which brought so much loneliness, also had its advantages.
Calvano finished his prayers and rose. Reluctantly I went with him. Iâd felt a glimpse of something greater waiting for me one day. It made leaving behind what I had felt all that much harder, but what choice did I have? My afterlife is apparently among the living.
I knew the rectory at St Raphaelâs would be much the same as the one so familiar to me from attending St Michaelâs. I was right. Behind the church, surrounded by a parking lot, sprawled a low, unremarkable building that housed the living quarters of the priests and a handful of nuns who served the church. There was nothing colorful or stylish about their rooms. Yet somehow, there was a relief in the sparseness of the outdated furniture and bare walls. This was not a place of material excess.
An old priest was fast asleep in a leather armchair by a window, his snores filling a tiny library next to the kitchen. I looked around to see where everyone else had gone.
Calvano had been met by an older nun who was leading him back to Father Sojak with a
The church was empty except for one young Hispanic woman who sat in the front pew as her fingers flew over her rosary beads. If St Raphael was anything like the Catholic church my family attended on the other side of town, membership had soared in recent years, rising with the Mexican population.
Calvano dipped his fingers into the holy water that shimmered in a basin near the front door and automatically crossed himself, a gesture now found only among older church members. I figured he would head for the side door that led to a small courtyard and the rectory where the priests and nuns lived, but Calvano surprised me. He walked about halfway down the middle aisle, then knelt on one knee, crossed himself, rose, and entered one of the pews. He knelt again and began to pray.
I cannot actually read peopleâs minds. I have had more success with memories. But I can often share in what people are feeling and I found the fallout from Calvanoâs prayers to be extraordinary. I was sitting in the row behind him when I felt a blanket of cool, comforting air settle in around me. I felt compelled to look up and, as I did so, the light from the votive candles seemed to dance across the jewel tones of the stained-glass windows, sending droplets of fiery red, golden yellow and sapphire blue spinning over the white marble floor. My whole being filled with a warm, comforting liquid, a feeling I had not experienced since I was a young child and my grandmother held me in her lap. I felt a glow somewhere deep inside me and my greatest fear â that I might never be able to leave this plane â disappeared under its power. It was as if infinite possibilities had been offered to me and all I had to do to obtain them was to believe. I was rocked by the sensation. I felt comforted and exalted and powerful all at the same time. I felt renewed and humbled and honored.
I do not think Calvano felt what I did. I think that only someone in my state of being could experience what I had. But I was deeply grateful to know that being the way I was, trapped between the living and the dead, in an existence which brought so much loneliness, also had its advantages.
Calvano finished his prayers and rose. Reluctantly I went with him. Iâd felt a glimpse of something greater waiting for me one day. It made leaving behind what I had felt all that much harder, but what choice did I have? My afterlife is apparently among the living.
I knew the rectory at St Raphaelâs would be much the same as the one so familiar to me from attending St Michaelâs. I was right. Behind the church, surrounded by a parking lot, sprawled a low, unremarkable building that housed the living quarters of the priests and a handful of nuns who served the church. There was nothing colorful or stylish about their rooms. Yet somehow, there was a relief in the sparseness of the outdated furniture and bare walls. This was not a place of material excess.
An old priest was fast asleep in a leather armchair by a window, his snores filling a tiny library next to the kitchen. I looked around to see where everyone else had gone.
Calvano had been met by an older nun who was leading him back to Father Sojak with a
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