St. Thomas Church, Leipzig, 2022

St. Thomas church in Leipzig looked nothing like how John remembered it. Of course, that was just shy of a century ago. During Nazi rule, the church was largely empty. Valuable chalices, artifacts of a different time and place, were smuggled out. As John left Leipzig, the image of the church draped in red flags and propaganda speakers was burned into his mind. 

Seeing the church today was rewriting those memories, erasing the pain with the solvent of present reality. John climbed the steps. Angels watched over his footfalls. He pushed the great doors open. There, on the threshold between memory and experience, John basked in the warmth of the interior. A great rush of hot air flew around him, lifting the last few hairs on the back and side of his skull. The organ began playing. Furious and holy arpeggios rushed out the pipes. The choir at the alter opened up, filling the church was strength, sound, and breath. 

John held firm at the threshold, taking it all in one last time. The pastor came up the steps, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. 

“Welcome home,” the pastor said. 

“Ah,” John sighed. “Now I can die.”