As much as I love a good, lone few hours at a coffee shop, sometimes it’s just not where I want to be.
Sometimes, I just want to drive. I want to feel the hum of the road beneath me and see street lights buzzing by like fireflies.
Sometimes I want that kind of quiet.
And sometimes, I wish I could find a Catholic church with her doors standing wide open to me. I’d go inside and sit in the pew, and the priest would come and ask, “Daughter, who are you looking for?” and I’d quietly say, “Jesus. I just want to find Jesus.” and he’d pray for me and I’d leave, quieted.
It’s not just the occasional movie scene, someone looking for God at the preacher’s door.
It’s not just a fictitious story.
When I sit and drink my coffee and stare out the window and write, I find Jesus there.
But there’s a deep and knowing solace behind the doors of a church, a sacred space that pulls the truth out of our darkest and most undeserving corners.
Right now I still find myself looking down at a latte. I still feel the steam cover my doubt.
But maybe one day, it’ll be the church that draws me in, one of these Atlanta holy places to fill my cup back up on a cold and stormy night.