Damned If You Do {h.s.}

1

"You need a big god, big enough to fill you up," Big God- Florence and the Machine

I haven't been inside a church since my husband's funeral. Before that, not since high school.

I clutch my tote bag, eyeing the great oak doors before me, the wood darkened into two intersecting strips to form a cross as tall as me. Writing this article is an honor, not to mention fascinating, and I was lucky to land it.

Saint Joseph's is a relic of another time, built at the peak of a large hill, towering above the Pennsylvanian landscape with it's curling arches and jagged spires. Carved into the building's stone are depictions of saints and the Blessed Virgin Mary, staring down at parishioners with empty, sandstone eyes. The carving of Mary extends taller than the rest, nearly three stories with palms outstretched and a serpent beneath her feet, choking with fangs bared in a final threat, protruding from the structure as if trying to crawl away. I wonder if the hollow divots of Mary's tears fill with water when it rains, making the stone truly Mother weep.

"Wish me luck, Lucy," I mumble to the suffocating serpent before pushing open the heavy oak door.

My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness inside, so polarizing from the blue sky. Catholic Churches always seem to have this front hallway area, with a second set of glass doors initially closing off guests from the actual chapel. My second grade teacher told me that was where sinners and people who hadn't been baptized stood, and that they weren't allowed into the chapel portion of the church. As much as I would love to prove Ms. Dinoto wrong, my extensive experience with Catholicism leans towards this being true. The branch has a history of behaving "holier-than-thou".

Saint Joseph's front hallway bears a low ceiling with dim lights and a deep red carpet that travels past the glass doors and into the chapel. On one end of the hallway stretches a rather dangerous looking staircase, with only thin slabs of wood for steps, each one lacking a backing, almost like they protrude from the wall individually. On the other, a table of red candles, with a bleacher-like build so as to stack each row of candles higher than the one before. A handful of said candles hold single flames, illuminating the crucifix above.

Jesus hangs from the wall, barely two feet tall, with nails hammered into his hands and feet, a stab wound in his side, and a crown of thorns pushed into his scalp. And a loin cloth. No church lets Jesus hang loose despite the lack of accuracy. His bloodied toes rest so close to the candles beneath, making the drips of blood look like melted wax staining his toe nails.

"Careful, that's a fire hazard there, bud," I joke, but Jesus doesn't laugh. Typical.

"Can I help you?"

An older lady emerges from a door beside Jesus, carrying binders and wearing an enormous brooch and appearing totally caught off guard by my presence. But she smiles with her red lipstick and looks over the rims of her cat-eye glasses at me.

"Yes," I smile, "I'm the journalist here for the Architectural Digest article? I believe we spoke on the phone last month."

I swear her eyes light up like one of those fancy Christmas trees with snow painted on it's needles.

"Oh! You must be Angel!" she exclaims, waving her arms so much I'm afraid she might toss away her stack of binders as she hurries towards me, "We are so honored to have you come and take a look at our lovely church! You know I almost didn't believe it when you called, but gosh darn am I glad you're here!"

She stares at me with such adoration and is standing a little too close and smells like coffee and Macy's perfume and truthfully, it's a little much so I just nod and smile wider, unsure of what to say. A beat passes of me just smiling and her just staring and maybe I should say something about the weather or lie and say I like her brooch but I'd really rather not. I don't like bedazzled American flags, it's October for fucks sake.