Today I walked in a small, community park, round the one-mile loop, past ballfields, a pavillion, and a playground. From a farmfield away, the bells of the historic New Goshenhoppen Church rang a pleasant tune. The sound served as an iconic reminder of the holy holiday the majority will soon celebrate. When the trail descended behind the hills, past marshlands, and around a small pond, I could no longer hear the bells. I inhaled the chilly, unscented air, and gazed up at the tall sycamore tree. No matter how lovely the church, its inhabitants, or its songs, my cathedral remained outside, out where my prayers ring beyond the ceilings of man.