Frances is 24 years old and wonders, sometimes, what drove her grandmother to go to church. It takes only one thought to throw the world into a spin; Frances' decision, that day, was one of those life changing hunches.
I heartily thank MBMatthews fo...
Stability. This little church, lost on the side of the busy street, always seemed to watch over wanderers without ever ageing. Its white stones, eaten away by rain and pollution, still stood despite the centuries. Despite the deliquescence of the religion that had, once, reigned over the western part of the world. Despite the fact that men had stopped believing in HIM and his principles, wreaking havoc in the world without ever realising how far they'd strayed from the path of righteousness. Had generosity, grace, love becomes a foreign concept? Had money replaced honour? Possession crushed fairness of the mind?
How did they survive, the people that still chose this religious path, in such a world?
Frances watched, eyes squinted against the sunlight, the tall building that so often caught her gaze when she went to the city centre. There, like a rock, but invisible to the world. She wasn't a religious woman; far from it. At home, she'd heard more antireligious pamphlets that she could have found in leftist newspapers. Daughter of a communist and a socialist, granddaughter of a man who's forbidden the clergy to lay hand on his son – her father – under the pretext that he had brains. He would be an engineer, not a scholar in an institution of lies! Vade Retro, Catholic Church!
But today... Today her feet carried her over the threshold of the gothic structure. Her grandmother's plea, echoing in the back of her brain, begging to share the joy she had once felt whenever she set foot in the small parish church. A way to honour this side of the family; unknown people only mentioned in yearly gatherings.
Music greeted her ears, a pure sound of male voices echoing against the walls – just a recording. There was no coldness, and Frances slowly walked forward, surprised to feel at ease. The house of God had been so often castigated in her parents' house... Multicoloured lights filtered through the simple stained glasses, landing every fifteen feet; her path was clear. The voices accompanied her on the way, coaxing softly, gliding around her like little fairies, intertwined in a lament that touched her so deeply that her eyes tingled. Was it the strength of their faith that gave so much power to those people, even when they were not present?
Her shoes were silent on the stones polished by hundreds of faithful in a not so distant past. Today remained only a handful, sitting or kneeling under the arches of the transept. Frances eventually found an icon of the Virgin Mary, a marble statue of no great beauty. At her feet shone dozens of candles; prayers from believers. What had they been thinking whenever they alighted one?
Without hesitation, Frances dropped her bag on the wooden bench to fish out a coin that she slid into the slit. The metal clanged in the empty box that received the donations, echoing against the empty walls. The young woman stilled her hand, peeking around her to make sure she'd not disturbed the peace. No one in sight. Phew.
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Her hand trembled as she chose a candle, the flame flickering slightly when she tipped it to light the wick. Just a second before it caught, barely a moment for her to ponder on her wish. Why had she lit that candle? Grandma was dead, and despite the fact that Frances didn't believe in any God, her ancestor did. Sitting on the bench, the young woman watched the flame burn amongst dozens of others, their tiny light flickering with the barest of drafts.
