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A wave of emotion came over me as I sat alone in the empty church, listening to fat raindrops strike in heavy thuds against the darkened stained glass windows. It was cool inside, the faint smell of incense comforting me, though whether it lingered from an earlier Mass of from a scent imprinted on my mind from childhood I couldn't say for sure. Odd that the one peaceful place I knew was one I had walked away from years before.

I sensed, more than heard, someone slide into the pew directly behind me. I didn't turn; I knew it would be Father Boyle.

"Still breaking into my church, I see," he said.

"The door by the rectory was open," I replied. "I didn't have to break in this time."

"You've got a church of your own you can sit in," he said. "And it's closer to where you live. Why do you still come here?"

I smiled. He had never seen my church, and only knew its location from brief conversations we had had over the years.

"With the renovation of the sanctuary," I said, finally turning to face him, "sitting in my church is like sitting in a convention center auditorium. It's multi-purpose now: services on Sunday morning, then rearrange the chairs and add tables for a dinner, then move all of it out for a basketball game."

"A shame," he said. To Father Boyle, the Church was as much the building as the people who filled it. Notre Dame, Chartres, St. Peter's Basilica; their architecture was as much a glorification of God as the praises that were sung within them.

"That's been one of my hardest transitions since leaving the Catholic Church," I said. "The casualness of the Baptist services is unsettling sometimes."

"I'm not sure I understand," he said, "but then I've never been inside a Baptist church, let alone to one of the services." Then he added with a grin: "Of course, I'm usually busy on Sunday mornings."

"Growing up, there were things here than were anchors. I would come into the church for Mass, and knew that as soon as I made the sign of the cross with holy water at the door, my demeanor changed. I got quiet, respectful, sometimes even awestruck. Even as a kid, with the attention span of a cocker spaniel, I knew when I came in here that I was somewhere special. Even if I didn't know why, and even if it wasn't really true, I felt closer to God here."

"And you don't feel that way at your church?" he asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.

"At my church, people walk in chatting away, greeting friends, some people even doing business deals. Then they stand and sing the first

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