The Unlearned Christian

She climbed the steps to the enormous oak doors of the 12th century cathedral. The wind blowing through her hair. The liquefaction of her hair indicating stale blood, following her every move, her every motion. The aroma of incense brought the beginning of the funeral procession. Inside the walls of this magnificent building were the greatest bible artworks of any she had previously seen. The people began to pour from their seats as she walked in the doors. The priest strolled mournfully before the maple, six foot, coffin; proudly carried by six men; that lead the procession out of the holy grounds and into the streets to the nearest graveyard in which the deceased would be able to rest in peace. She hid in the corner of the cathedral but immersed when the last of the crowd had left. All had shed their tears, not one remained unsorrowful. They all had a reason to mourn, as it seemed. Her mind drifted from the sadness of the funeral to the beauteousness of the cathedral’s interior. All the statues she barely recognized, all the paintings she did not know. She caught the sound of shuffling feet as she approached the alter. She revolved quickly to see a friar humbly ascending up the aisle in her direction. The second he saw her face, he gasped. Could it be? Was it true? He shook his head as she watched him climb the few small marble steps to where she stood awaiting him.