I have holy envy. I want a private chapel. I want stained glass, a pew, children kneeling, ritual, beauty, low murmurs, and I want it in my home.
I wanted this even before I read Brideshead Revisited. Our church houses have a gymn, a stage, a kitchen, classrooms, grounds, baseball fields, volleyball courts, barbecue pits, but also a chapel. Why not our homes?
I idly kick around sometimes what our family chapel could look like and how we could use it without stretching our Mormonness to the breaking point. I haven’t come up with anything.
Recently Melanie, a commenter, gave me a clue. She said that for Mormons the food storage room could be sacred space. I could see it–the quiet cinder block room, one window high up, divided into neat rows of cinderblock-and-wood shelves, the the cans and the bags and the bottles and the buckets dingy but orderly, stacked and labeled. Some of the buckets by one wall are good for sitting and I’ve got a old book of scripture shoved back there along with a notebook. Saturday nights my son sits out there with me while we polish our shoes. Neither of us says much. If we do talk its about God or the Civil War.