Today as I was visiting Manchester's cathedral, a historic monument that still operates as a worship place, a very old and typical British couple caught my attention.
The two of them, a man and a woman, were standing side by side - their bodies' position indicated that one supported the other, in many, many different ways, for many, many years.
I watched them as they whispered prayers, holding hands and with their eyes closed.
And then I realized what was that what kept their hands together: A black and white, very old picture, of someone I couldn't see. Maybe a child of the couple, long dead, but still remembered? Who knows...
... and then I realized that the thing that makes every church, of every religion, in every corner of the world, a very special place, a sacred one, is, of course, not the God's presence in it... it is merely the fact that churches "house" our most dark and bitter tears.
Those that are shed for the people we lost, early and unexpectedly. The tears for the loved ones we will never see again.
The old man sensed that I observed them, open his eyes and nodded at me.
I nodded back with a little smile, embarrassed that I was caught stealing such a private and sacred a moment.
The old man smiled as if saying "it's o.k., do not worry...".