'maybe there's a god above'

The last time I prayed was in Notre Dame.

In truth, I hadn’t prayed to God for some time before that, my compulsive habit ceasing sometime during my treatment for depression and self-harm. I ended up in therapy that time by accident; mum walked into my room, and I didn’t have time to hide the cut and burn marks tracking up my thighs. She made me dress and forced me into the car. While going sixty along the back roads of town, she told me about my father’s abuse at the hands of the church. How his behaviour wasn't my fault, that it wasn’t anything I did that caused him to start drinking and abusing. How I should stop, because God didn’t give us bodies just so we could abuse them ourselves.

My family was casually religious, but it was still expected I would believe in God and respect the traditions. I have vague memories of attending a faith group while in primary school, along with mass every Christmas. In hindsight, it makes sense that I began to pray in earnest when things started going downhill with my father. But after the revelation, the prayers stopped. I didn’t like the idea of a god that turned a blind eye to the abuse of children.

Back to Notre Dame. I hadn’t prayed for a while by that point, but I thought, it never hurts to do it one last time. The artist in me even thought it was poetic; my final conversation with God to occur in the most famous of cathedrals.

The sky was overcast, rain drizzling intermittently. The ground was slick with rainwater runoff from the old-style Parisian buildings, my worn-down ankle-length boots sometimes slipping on cobblestone and asphalt.

On my last stumble, Noah catches my arm.

“You alright Ally?” he asked. “You’re a little spacey.”

“I’m fine,” I replied. “It’s just the crowds.”

“I hear you.” Noah and I had met in group therapy sessions for anxiety, some six years earlier. We bonded over experiences with abusive fathers, and attended the same school for grades eleven and twelve. Both of our mothers thought the French study tour would be the perfect opportunity to extend ourselves before graduation. For the most part, they were right.

We both paused in our strides as the south-bound road we’d been following opened to Jean XXIII’s square. The grass was verdant green, and uniformly cut. The western façade of the cathedral was to our left, other tourists and pilgrims swarming around the entrances.

“This is even worse than I thought it’d be,” Noah said, snapping a picture of the cathedral on his IPhone. I twined my arm through his as we joined the crowds.

“It is two days after Easter,” I replied. Despite the masses of people, the lines moved rapidly, and before long we were near the entrance. I twisted my head up, eyes meeting with the gargoyles. They stared down, teeth bared and snarling.

An attendant said something in French, and our group surged forwards. Inside, the cathedral was dark. I’m sure there were other lights, some kind of installed halogen or such, but the orange-tint of the candlelight was distinctly memorable.

“Goddamn, this is actually beautiful,” Noah whispered, beside me.

“Blasphemy!” I replied, equally as hushed but almost laughing.

“I’m going to get some photos for my art journal,” he said. “I’ll meet you near the front when you’re done.”

With that, he wandered off, towards the stain-glass windows and organ. Noah did have a point; from an architectural point of view, the interior was stunning.

It stirred nothing in me but appreciation for its aesthetics, though. As I craned my head around, I hoped that the beauty and power of the place would somehow save my faith. But there was no such Hail Mary, no revelation, no hallelujah.

I moved through the aisles, keeping my footsteps light, and came to a stop in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. She’s my favourite saint, and the only one I could tell you about in detail. When I was a child I was perpetually fascinated by her, the peasant girl who led armies at sixteen and burned at nineteen.

Joan stood there, still. Perfect in stone, her hands clasped together and eyes cast skyward. I chose Joan because she’s the one I know best, and the only one I trusted for this.

Taking a two-euro coin from my travel wallet, I dropped it into the donation box beside the statue. It landed with a tink. My hands reached for one of the milky-white tealight candles. I held it against the flame of one already lit, singeing the tips of my fingers with wax.

Placing the candle with the hundreds of others, I shut my eyes and clasped my hands together. When I was younger, my prayers consisted of requests to make sure my father didn’t die in his sleep, and later for him to return home. Sometimes I even prayed for my pets, or asked for superpowers. I know things don’t work that way now, but my younger self’s disappointment when there was no reply still sits bitter on my tongue.

What I said, I don’t exactly remember, but it followed the same gist as all my previous ones. Whispering to whatever was above, I asked that they watch over my family, especially my increasingly wayward younger sister. I finished with a simple amen. my eyes scanned the room for any sign of divine intervention; like Joan moving, or even a simple breeze. But Joan didn’t move, the air remained stagnant and heavy. My breath came out in a stutter, my eyes stinging.

I’d been waiting for a miracle.

I rubbed the palm of my hands into my eyes, to make it stop. It wasn’t the time to be weak, that could wait for my hotel room. I collected myself and nodded my head towards Joan, before turning on my heels and making for the nearest exit.

Noah was waiting there.

Drying my tears on the sleeves of my jacket, I forced a smile onto my face as I reached him. Noah was smiling, scrolling through pictures on his phone. He started talking about stained-glass. At that point, I was functioning on auto-pilot. My moves were robotic and stilted. As we exited, I gave another handful of euros to a nun holding a small wooden donation box. I replied to Noah in hums.

My mind kept tracing back to the same point. The revelation I had been grappling with for the past few months was sinking in.

God either doesn’t care or doesn’t exist. He either let him hurt me, or there was never anybody watching out for me.

I couldn’t tell you which idea hurt more.

We stepped out to the square, the sun bright on the eyes even when hidden behind clouds. Noah guided us out, and to the side, away from the thrum of people.

“You’re not here,” Noah said. “Seriously, Alice, are you alright?”

Just like that, I wasn’t.

“I don’t think I believe in God anymore,” I choked out.

“Oh, Ally,” he replied. Noah threw his arm over my shoulder and gently pulled me into a hug. I began to sob, my tears quickly soaking his jumper.

Minutes passed, and he held me, rubbing circles in my back.

“You’ll be alright,” he said, softly. “Everything will work out fine.”

Under that grey Parisian sky, I hoped he was right.