I am not French. I am not Catholic. I’m not even religious. But centuries-old places of worship intrigue me. It doesn’t matter where they are or which religion they were built to serve, when I visit I can feel the stories of those who have celebrated, mourned, or simply survived within their walls. I touch a column and think of the craftsperson who coaxed that bit of stone or wood into something so beautiful, yet strong enough to hold up not just the building, but the individuals who have come in looking for support – the children, the parents, the jilted lovers, the happy, the sad, the people all alone.
In 2012, I spent an hour or two inside Notre Dame. It was a Sunday morning and Mass was in progress as I explored the interior perimeter along with hundreds of other tourists. We were separated from the parishioners by a corded barrier, but that didn’t stop the sound. I will never forget the way their voices rose up, and up, and up towards the highest arches. I will never forget the enormity of the space. Or the windows. Oh, the glorious windows. Those windows will forever color my memory of that day and that place. Wondering if they have all disappeared makes me want to weep.
The world has lost a treasure. The construction of this one place required the hands, the brains, and the dedication of thousands of people for many generations. It was not simply a church. It was not simply a building. It was a monument to the power we have when we come together to create a thing of beauty. Tonight, along with people from all over the planet, my heart is with Paris. And it is broken.
Nous somme avec vous, Paris.
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