I walked into the room where mass was held. It was a smaller, closed-off portion of the church. It had eight or nine rows of wooden pews and an altar decorated with similar golden statues and carvings. The doors were glass so that we couldn’t hear the sound of the tourists, but they could see in. The room was almost full. A group of nuns in black habits took a pew in the back row. Businessmen who had stopped in on their way home from work sat in the front. It was a full day today; there were almost no empty seats. And as usual, a group of people was standing in the back. They were obviously tourists because they looked nervous, whispering to each other, waiting to observe mass. I was sitting next to the stone wall a pew second from the front. We began the familiar routine of mass: sit, stand, kneel, pray, repeat. I heard the door open and shut as people entered and left during the service.  

Toward the end of the service, almost everyone in the room stood to receive communion. I stood in the back of the line, my left hand crossed over the right, waiting to be blessed. The door opened then, and I watched her sneak in the back. The girl in the green sweater had finally worked up the courage to enter the cathedral. She stood in the group of tourists for a moment and glanced back at the door as if she were trying to decide if she should leave. She stayed. I moved forward in line. I followed her with my eyes as she weaved through the people, looking for an empty pew to sit at but coming up empty. I could see the terror in her eyes shift into relief when she saw space on the pew I was sitting at. I turned to face the priest as he blessed me. When I walked back to my space, I saw her kneeling with her hands clasped and head down. Her hands were joined so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white. Her shoulders shook slightly, but I couldn’t tell if it was from laughter or tears.  

I slid past her and kneeled next to her. I began praying but turned to her when I heard her take a ragged breath. I paused and looked at her. I couldn’t see much of her face as her forehead was pressed into the wood of the pew in front of her, but I was able to watch as tears dripped from her cheeks onto her knees, soaking the denim of her jeans. Usually, when I’m praying, I do my best not to bother those around me, but this time, I couldn’t help it. I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. I was going to say something, but I could feel her begin to cry harder. Moments later, she stood and rushed out of the room, wiping her face with the sleeves of her sweater. 

This beautifully delicate piece of nonfiction encapsulates the real world in an unlikely encounter with another stranger. The author Kara Finley depicts the power of human emotion through the connection made between her and a mysterious girl she meets at Toledo. Among the beautiful descriptions of the church lie a raw piece of writing that leaves you wishing for more.