Cathedrals

When my eyes fall on all these works—the decorated columns, the ceilings draped in gold and paint, the marble statues, and the high altars with their majestic reredos—I can’t help but think about those who made them and the faith they had and how dear they held it in their hearts when they made these things for You. And I realize—powerless before the display of Good, Truth, and Beauty before my eyes—that I, too, wish to make such things: I wish to build a cathedral. One in my heart, no less.

Your saints, so kind and patient to me, shall have their chapels there. Your Mother, Our Mother, the greatest of them all, shall have hers, too. Blue, with vaulted ceilings tattered with stars, like her mantle.

My hours of study I shall offer to you in a chapel. Those of work on another. In one more I shall offer you my writing—terrible as it is—and in another my dreams and aspirations, with a rose window so large for the light of hope to shine through and reach even the deepest portions of this, my wretched soul.

This I wish to do. This, if you will it, I shall do.

Who knows?

Perhaps the stone of my heart may finally serve some purpose.