I have a recurring deep ache to go to church. An old, quiet, traditional Catholic Church with stained glass windows and confessional booths. Where you can smell the aged, used holy water and wax burning from smoking candles. Where the screech of a loud creak is heard as you sit upon the hard upright pew. Where the kneelers slam down, and the padding is worn, and your knees begin to ache halfway through the Eucharistic Prayer.

I want to sit alone with no one too close. A frail, old lady, clutching her handbag full of tissues a few pews ahead; a young couple with a newborn baby hard asleep in the back. A widow in black in the front row, and a dozen more broken souls scattered about. I want to be surrounded by people who are sad but hopeful, broken but kind. Those who are hurting yet trying.

I want to be around a whisper. A soft touch. A subtle look. I don’t want big movements or loud music or big laughter and hellos. I just want to connect in the quiet. I want the priest to be innately good, good to the core, and hear him say the same prayers that have been said from the beginning without any air or performance. I want to hear the scripture readings, the gospel, and the priest reflect on something pure and hear him say, “God loves us all, it’s okay.”

I’m desperately craving peace, a connection to myself in a deep unspoken way. I’m craving the presence of the broken yet hopeful people. The ones who have been through it and have surrendered to the Hallelujah. The ones who no longer need to explain or express themselves with words. The ones who can just sit next to me, and I can see them, and they can see me, and we can just be together, in the peace and in the pain, knowing that the sun still shines, the birds still chirp, and the wind still blows through every tree.