![]() ![]() Fingertips graze the hard wooden pews, the tongue tastes wafer and wine, nostrils take in the frankincense, ears prick to the peal of bells, the bursting notes of the organ. Worshipping there engages every one of the senses. Something about the sacred spaces of Notre Dame strikes me at a deep level-perhaps it is the physicality of the worship. If I turn my back for a moment, he climbs the font and paddles his fingers in the holy water. He loves to walk through the church: pointing out favorite paintings, studying the stations of the cross. At the top of the hill towers the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, where I often bring my young son. Incense wafts down towards the lake: a sweet, woody smell, with a hint of lemon. ![]() The feeling of wanting to weep, yet without being sad, and without knowing why.ĭrawing nearer to the heart of campus, the natural noises give way to another sound-the soft tolling of bells. Lewis called this feeling “Sehnsucht”-a longing for something inexplicable. But the sunlight glinting off the bronze cross sends a thrill through me. This sylvan Golgatha is hidden from the main path one might easily miss it. They are statues-three crosses with men hanging on them, and a woman weeping at their feet. ![]() Glancing up, I startle at unexpected figures in front of me. I walk it at dusk, leaves crackling underfoot, small creatures rustling in the brush. There is a pathway through the woods, around the lake. ![]()
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