The first cathedral I visited in Spain was inhabited by Gregorian monks. We stopped in Santo Domingo de los Silos on the way to Santander after arriving at the airport in Madrid. The huge purple bus drove right up the narrow cobbled streets of the ancient town and dropped us off at the door to the cathedral. We stepped off the bus just in time to witness the obligatory rice pelting of a bride and groom coming out of the church. Yes, they used real rice (even the health of the local bird population bows to tradition over there...) There was also confetti, which flew up into the air and showered down in a great burst of color, but somehow looked out of place when it landed on the stone steps of the cathedral. The brightly colored paper and well-worn grey stones seemed to mock the paper-rock-scissors order of things.

After the wedding party cleared out, we stepped over the man with the broom, furiously sweeping up confetti and rice, and entered the century's-old house of God. We silently filed in and sat down on the pews, and soon the monks did likewise and began there daily chanting. The sound started low and then before your ears were even aware of it, their chant was emanating through the church. The stone walls seemed to be playing with the sound waves, bouncing them back and forth and yet, at the same time, holding onto them, for when they stopped, I could somehow still hear it. I must have been the only one, for everyone else quietly got up and left the building, bursting into meaningless conversations the minute they set foot out the door.

We visited many, many cathedrals and more humble places of worship. The stone walls sung out to me in every one of them. I would always look around me, and wonder why I seemed to be the only one to hear the glorifying voices. There were no more choirs or chanting Gregorian monks, but still I heard the songs of praise lifted up to the God for Whom every pillar and altar and arch was designed and brought into form.

The grandiose Catedral de Toledo made me feel like the small child that I am in the hand of so immense a God. I was speechless and, for some reason, shook in awe that such a magnificent place was created for my God (even though He most certainly deserves no less). Here the music was more angelic, but audible even above the strains of the huge organ in the middle of the structure. In the small Gothic church in Olleros de Pisuerga (carved out of natural caves in the side of a mountain), the voices were more desperate and more joy-filled, giving me a sense of the danger that these Christians faced in just daring to meet and worship their God during the time when they were persecuted by the Moors.

Everywhere the singing followed me. Even when a small band of us americanos made our way to the solitary protestant church in Santander, I entered the little tenement room, sat down on the orange plastic chair and found that even these cracking white cinderblocks were storing up the voices for themselves. Yet here the voices were distinctly different. In the Centro Evangélico, the voices were vibrantly alive. When the people opened their plastic-covered hymnals and started to sing, their voices were so loud, louder than they should have been for such a small group. The walls were lending their voices, it seems.

I wonder if, even now, my humble voice is still joined in song with my brothers and sisters each Sunday morning in that small house of God (a true cathedral) on the back streets of Santander? ~ HAS (28 abril 00)

["If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast." ~ Psalm 139:9-10]