When we arrived at St Patrick’s Cathedral, a crowd of people were rushing up the steps as the bells pealed. I stopped and stared up at the enormous, beautiful stone building with its stained-glass windows. I had never seen the likes of it. Mrs. Donahue smiled at me. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she said.

We followed the crowd in, blessed ourselves with holy water and knelt in a pew near the back of the church. I didn’t know where to look first. The main altar was covered in red carpet and gold candlesticks gleamed among vases of beautiful white flowers. There were side altars too, each one honoring a saint with a statue and flickering candles. The smell of flowers and candle wax and polished wood filled my senses, along with the sounds of feet clattering on the stone floor. I said a quick prayer and stood up just as a blast of organ music filled the building.

As the Mass progressed, I held back tears. Amid everything that was new and strange to me, the familiar rituals gave me comfort, but they also stirred loneliness inside me that was never far away. I thought of the small village church at home, where I knelt surrounded by our neighbors, and listened to Father McGinty. This American priest, however, spoke with little of the fiery passion Father McGinty summoned up every Sunday to scare the devil out of us.

Mrs. Donahue nudged me, and I started. She nodded toward the altar, and I realized it was time for communion. A row of priests stood at the foot of the altar, chalices in hand and communion hosts held aloft. As it happened, I’d had nothing to eat since midnight, as was the rule, and so without thinking I stepped out of the pew and joined the line of people moving toward the altar. It was a practice I had followed since I was seven years old, and as natural as my own breathing. I was halfway up to the altar when I froze. What was I doing? I was in a state of mortal sin and I had not been to confession. How could I take communion? Sweat began to pour down the back of my neck. My panic rose as I looked around me, and then at Mrs. Donahue.

“I-I don’t feel well,” I whispered. “I think I’m going to faint.”

She looked at me in alarm. “Go on outside, love,” she said, “and get some fresh air.”

I nodded and pushed my way through the crowd to the huge front doors of the cathedral. Once outside, I stood on the top step, my breathing ragged. I had not lied to Mrs. Donahue; I literally felt sick.