The church is small, but built with love. The stone archways open up to a trio of stained glass windows, each blue with a brown cross in the middle. The light filters through, coloring the wooden floor with stark contrast, light wavering slightly as clouds slowly move across the sky. A large crucifix stands at the back on the chapel, the wood-carved savior spread across it, aged with time. Those soulless, oaken eyes look to the side in an eternal acceptance of fate. Under the cross... Is an angel.

He is bloodied. His left wing is half missing, the feathers slick with crimson red, her favorite color. His shirt is torn open, and many of those past wounds have been reopened, or at least, cut over. His hair is wet, perhaps from sweat, and pushed back, streaked with congealed flecks. He leans against the cross, breathing heavily as he looks towards the sky. Soft, unheard utterances leave his mouth. In his hand, trailing to the ground, is a beautiful, red rosary. The beads dig into his skin, causing blood to pool underneath and trail across his palm.

As she would get closer, those soft words can be heard repeated... again... and again, "My trust in God flows out of the experience of her loving me, day in and day out, whether the day is stormy or fair, whether I'm sick or in good health, whether I'm in a state of grace or disgrace. She comes to me where I live and loves me as I am."