As the tragedy of 9/11 unfolded, I was in desperate need for companionship. I lived alone, and although my dog, Quay, did what she could to comfort me, I longed for human interaction. After watching hours of heart-wrenching television by myself, I went in search of community. As I made my way to my friend Sheri’s house—several of us single gals had decided to get together to watch even more heart-wrenching television—I stopped off at my church, which was situated between Sheri’s house and mine.

“Surely the church will be open,” I thought as I turned toward the parking lot. On that day, of all days, I craved sanctuary. I did not need church to access God, but I did need church to calm my heart. When I pulled on the handle of one of the oversized, wooden doors, I was disappointed to find it locked in the middle of the afternoon. I know that many churches no longer leave their doors unlocked all the time, for security reasons, and this I understand. But not on that day, of all days. (Later I learned that a prayer service had been held several hours earlier.) Not even the chapel was accessible to me. Being barred from my place of worship on 9/11 seemed, at the very least, inhospitable, and I told my priest so the next time our paths crossed. (For varied reasons, I now attend a different church.)

I was taken back to that day as I wandered the grounds of the Chautauqua Institution this week and saw the open doors of the local Episcopal chapel. (The Chautauqua Institution is a not-for-profit, 750-acre educational center in southwestern New York State. The Institution serves as a national forum for discussion of public issues, international relations, literature, art, and science: www.ciweb.org.) Red doors thrown back invited me in to say a prayer, meditate on my surroundings, sit in silence…whatever I needed. On this particular day, my concerns were more mundane than on 9/11, but I was grateful for the opportunity nonetheless. Sometimes, knowing you are welcome is balm enough.

Amy Lyles Wilson