"He went to the church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and for, and patted the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of homes, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed of any walk, that anything, could give him so much happiness."
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
When she had been a child, she'd gone to church every Sunday. Of course, there had been times when she tried to argue her way around it, but most of the times, she simply went with her parents. Out of habit, out of faith. It somehow belonged to their routine. Of the week and the year.
She wasn't quite sure when she stopped going to church.
When she fought with her dad more often?
When she became a cop and felt that God wasn't there for everyone?
When she slipped into drugs?
Or when her lover blew his head off while she was next to him not caring?
She didn't know. It didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter when she lost her faith or because of what.
That she found herself in front of a church now didn't have anything to do with faith. Not in the first place.
Although her faith did return nonetheless.
Not necessarily in God. But in something. In herself.
But most important of all: Her faith in other people. Namely her partner.
But that was not the reason she was here. She just felt that this time of year wasn't complete without the candles, the singing, the prayers.
She didn't know why it seemed to belong together but there was no time when she felt more at home in a church than Christmas time.
Maybe it was just easier to believe in things when it came to Christmas.