I took a little roadtrip yesterday, 8-14, to Tumacácori Mission.
Tumacácori Mission is one of my favorite missions to visit. In the summer, when the desert heat keeps most people away, I can walk into the chapel and find it almost completely quiet. There’s something about standing in that old space with no one else around. I can sit for a while and simply take it in.
There isn’t much color left on the walls. Faded blues and reds cling to the plaster, just enough to remind me that the walls were once much brighter. Then there are the empty places and scars where wooden carvings, crucifixes, and statues once hung or stood. A couple of old wooden benches sit nearby, offering a place to rest, be still, and listen.
And sitting there, I start asking questions.
Who prayed in this exact spot hundreds of years ago? What did they carry with them when they walked through these doors? What were they afraid of? What were they hoping for? What did they whisper into their prayers? What burdens did they leave at the altar before walking back out into the world?
That’s what I love about old mission churches. They make it hard to look at history as something that happened to other people, a long time ago. The people who stood here had ordinary worries and extraordinary hopes, just as we do. They came through these doors carrying their lives with them.
The faded paint and empty spaces seem to tell part of that story. So does the worn stone. So does the silence.
And sitting alone on that wooden bench, I find myself wondering what these old walls might say about faith.
Maybe faith doesn’t have to be loud to endure. Maybe it doesn’t have to remain perfectly preserved, either. Sometimes it survives in the worn places, the fading colors, the empty spaces, and the quiet prayers of people who have long since gone.
Sometimes it survives simply because someone still walks through the door, sits down, and asks the questions.
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