I believe in God, because I believe in You. You’re my idol, whose breaks and jagged edges are a testimony to the pain Your pilgrims have caused You. From afar I saw their assault, their recklessness, their self-indulgence; I saw You still standing, atop consecrated soil.

I was in such awe. Your courtyard, when I could finally approach, was marred and trampled—the garden plants weighed and suffocated by rubble and ash.

I was in awe. Your halls, whose paintings were envied for miles, now torn and lacerated by crude blades and claws. Some were stolen, to be pawned off as trophies. The windows and walls were cracked and shattered, the jeweled tiles worn weary and battered, scattered about and gathered for cheap profit.

I was in awe. Your spires reached far above the wreck. The height is dizzying, maddening, but even still not untouched. There were fractures even that high above. The arches and pillars were built to hold the weight of the world, but You held the weight of many. I could see where the smoke stained the ceiling. I could see, even at those lofty perches, birds didn't nest in the soot and crumbling rafters.

I was in awe. You were brought so low, for so long, from so many, so harshly. And still You stood.

I knelt at Your shrine—tarnished silver and feathered offerings adorned the heart of the temple and remained a small scene of tranquility. I prayed for love, because in Your home I saw how destructive its dearth truly is. I dedicated to Your restoration. I prayed for the strength You had. You were a goddess whose spirit indomitable. You were a goddess whose will unwaverable.

I sought to let the world know that this was a gift, a purpose and conviction so powerful. You were powerful.

Stolen novel; please report.

So I set to sweep the floors. It was to be my first task, and the simplest. Full of glass and mud and fallen stone, I took care to notice every crack as I went, so as to not fill the pores with grime. I wanted to ensure no remnants of the carnage that brought You to this state remained. I’d fill those cracks with the proper material later.

Days turned into weeks. I heard the earth shift below more than once, and I worried I couldn’t save You fast enough. Maybe the disrepair wasn’t entirely to blame on the marauders. Maybe You weren’t on solid ground from the very beginning. I worried the foundation would give way to the walls. And I worried I’d be caught in prayer while the ceiling crashed overhead. I would’ve died trying to paint a collapsing ruin, and I would’ve done so again with every chance. This place was too precious, and I was too stubborn—too in love.

I wasn’t a stonemason. I wasn’t a woodworker. My skills were meager and lacking for the work required. I hear of coming storms ahead and I make shelter with the small comforts I could find. I hope You survive them. I hope I survive them.

Each storm passed, each tremor passed, and still You stood. So I swept.

I’d put shoring up with whatever I could find: chairs, ladders, mattresses, tables, logs from the grounds outside. It took many tries before I felt confident in the support I built. All the failures gave me experience. I’d hoped that with my experience I’d be able to keep You standing for the next storm ahead. The pillars started to look weaker. I prayed for them too.

But prayer doesn’t mean much. You heeded no quiet words, spoken from a hoarse voice and full of tempered passion and hope. Your dilapidated halls provided no strength to channel the wisdom I sought. You were too weak to answer. I sought to make You stronger, because with each quake and thunder, I was hurting too.

I sought comfort in You, because I saw a kindred spirit—amidst the danger of the world, someone who just needed some care. My history and my pain, both broken spirit and swollen knuckles, meant little while You crumbled. I thought if I restored Your beauty, Your grace and splendor, that You’d answer my prayers—heal this aching heart, whose suffering was only prolonged with every crack I tried to repair in You.