It was Christmas morning, and we went to St. Anne’s Church, a Crusader church named after the mother of Mary. Byzantine tradition claims that its crypt enshrines the site of her home. It belongs to the French Franciscan Fathers, thanks to the Ottoman Turks who presented it to France in 1856 for their support in the Crimean War.

The church was empty, spartan, of white stone. Light filtered in through high latticed windows. As I walked towards the altar, a sound reverberated along the walls, rising to the ceiling, taking all the weight I’ve ever known and lifting me with its notes. I stopped walking and knelt on the floor. For a moment, I thought I had entered heaven.

It took me a moment to realize there was chanting somewhere in the church. The singing ascended as if souls were captured in fragments that rose higher and higher yet were a touch away. I wish I could have captured it somehow. It will stay with me forever.

Like A Blue Thread
Israel

“It was built by Crusaders, who constructed amazing acoustical structures. Sunlight filtered through latticed openings high up on the walls and barely lit the church.” She shifts under the blankets, searching for comfort. “I didn’t know it, but mass was being celebrated in an underground chapel. Chanting filled the air as I walked to the altar, echoing up the walls and traveling through the floor and up the beams that sustain the ceiling, trembling, coursing, until they found their way into my soul.”

Like A Blue Thread
At Last