Dear God

I always imagined that churches never did close, a sanctuary ever available to all and sundry. Visions of weary pilgrims in the Middle Ages, holding all night vigils, candles burning, incense hanging in fragrant clouds in the close, still air. Orphaned Victorian children and widowed mothers huddling, desperate, at the altar praying for refuge from the cold and damp, snowy Christmas Eves,worshippers packed to the rafters to celebrate the virgin birth; these were the images in my head as I gazed at the nearly one thousand hear old cathedral. Standing shivering in the graveyard, the giant yew trees dwarfing the darkening sky above, I could almost hear the choir singing. As ever, the enduring mizzle turned angry and the ground we stood on turned quickly to mud. We ran through the slippery mess to the large vestibule, forbiddingly guarded by a spiked wrought iron and wooden gate; not exactly a warm welcome, but we hadn't many choices. We hoped for the best and pushed on the gate. It creaked a spooky hello and we all shuffled into the embrace of the cold, damp stone enclosure. I snuggled closer to the wall to escape the wind and rain, an imposing wooden door stood in the middle of the open faced rocky womb. Was it to much to hope to find it open? Perhaps someone inside would be able to help us, maybe allow us to spend the night in the Lord's house? Disappointed we would be...