She felt at a loss for words to properly articulate what made her stomach drop so nauseatingly. Was this dread, or simple fear?

“Were you so eager for this life to end that you needed a new one?” The man asked in a friendly sort of way.

“I didn’t really view this life as a life…I mean, it couldn’t go on like this. I have nothing, I am nobody. This was a hallway. This wasn’t for forever. Something had to change, and that’s when I knew real life would begin.”

“Ah.” The kind man lifted his chin to stare out the window. His posture was relaxed but present, and he thought over her words over. “I see what you mean. Yes, life always changes. It’s never good to want to stay the same forever. But it’s also never good to only think about future lives when you’re living one now.”

“I know,” she said in a small voice. “But I couldn’t stand to stay where I was. I have no purpose here. There’s no way this is what I’m meant to live. I can’t do this.”

“You aren’t meant to do this forever. None of this, as a matter of fact. It all ends, sooner or later.” The man smiled through the morbidity of his comment, somehow still seeming uplifting, liberating. He was right, after all.

“But now things are changing,” she continued, eager to pull answers or wisdom or anything from him. “Now I have this choice before me. Or, well, it doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like I have to go through with it. But now, suddenly, I don’t want to. Why? I don’t understand. I should be leaping for joy. I thought I’d cry in relief of being here! Of seeing change unfolding!”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I just told you, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. I suddenly feel scared and sad to change my life. But I was so miserable before!”

“What’s wrong with this path?”

She paused, trying to think through her confusing emotions. “It doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. It seemed so adventurous and exciting and a good story to tell. At first, it consumed me with pride and excitement and anticipation! But now those feelings have gone away, and I’m left sort of alone.” She sighed. “And alone is all I’ve felt lately. I thought I was escaping that feeling by leaving, by going down this path.”

“Do you still feel alone, even now?”

She frowned. “Not as much,” she admitted. “Ever since I told people about this new path, people I had previously been fine to leave behind, now I feel like I’ll miss them. I’ll miss their lives. I’ll miss my family, my friends. My home here. I suppose that’s normal.”

The man nodded. “Sometimes our best paths do take us away from the people we love. And sometimes being away from them is what reminds us how much we love them.”

“I know,” she said in agony, having hoped for a different answer. “So that means my feelings are normal and it isn’t a sign I’m making the wrong choice.”

The man smiled at her. “What else will you miss?”

“Everything! I’ll miss my home, my city, my pets…I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t think I would miss everything this much. It’s like I didn’t think about it before. I prayed for this, but now I’m praying to stay.”

“Ah.” The man interlaced his fingers and lowered his chin to his chest. “And that’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And you wish I would tell you what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“Yes. I have to know if I’m supposed to go down this path.”

“And how would you feel if you don’t get to go down this path?”

She paused for a moment to collect her most honest thoughts. “I would feel relief. Maybe a little crestfallen over having to start over with what’s next…but now I have hope for my place here. I don’t have to move far away to feel like I matter. I have peace over building a life here. Some things do have to change, but not everything.”

“How would you feel if the path does unfold and you can walk down it?”

“I’d feel obligated to try,” she responded, wringing her hands. “I don’t want to stay back in fear. And I guess, deep down, I know I could build a life somewhere else. Meet new people. Have a purpose there. I think it could be good, even if I’m scared and lonely. But I don’t think moving away will fix everything I feel. I still have to work on that.”

The man nodded knowingly. “Those are good answers.” He sighed and looked up at the sky through the window. “The truth is, I’m not here to tell you what’s going to happen to you. That’s against the rules. But I am here to help you see that, sometimes, life doesn’t really fit into one perfect story… at least, not in our little minds. There are many stories ready to unfold at any minute—keeping up with the possibilities and changes and decisions is far above my pay grade—“ he winked, still looking up at the sky. “But while we get distracted looking at the paths before us, we miss out on what’s really important.” He looked at her now.

“Yes?” She asked expectantly.

“Any path is the wrong path when you walk it with the wrong heart.” He smiled. “But many paths may be the right one when you walk it with the right heart.”

She took it in, mulling over his words. “Okay. I think I understand. So it isn’t about what path I get sent down…it’s about my attitude?”

“Among other things. It’s about your hope, your fear, your obedience; lessening your grip. It’s about being free to walk without worrying over tripping.”

She sighed, slumping back. “You’re right, I suppose.” She glanced at him from the side. “I still think it would be easier if I could just know.”

The man laughed, throwing his head back. “Perhaps easier for a moment! But a lot harder in the long run, I promise. You know deep down this truth. I can see it.”

“You’re right,” she said again. “Is that it, then? I just have to wait and see what happens? And have a good attitude in the meantime?”

“Pretty much. But don’t you feel a little better? A little freer? You aren’t on the cusp of making the wrong decision; just on the cusp of spoiling a right one,” he said in a good natured, soothing tone.

“I suppose so.” She settled back again and sighed. “It’s a little freer of a feeling. But not much easier.”

“Easiness was never an option,” he said with a wink. “And I promise it’s better that way.”

August wanted to be brave so that no one would ever hurt him again; he could go out into the world, as he had when he was young, and yet be guarded by this elusive strength. He could become hard, become someone who was no longer vulnerable to the evil of man. He could survive, finally on his own, not relying on the Cathedral’s charity. Being on your own in strength, he imagined, was far better than being on your own in powerlessness. And he was right, though the rightness was very near to the wrongness — and very far from the true rightness he needed to see.

August tapped his fingers rapidly as he leaned against the door to the room. He had arrived early, but if he waited around much longer, he’d be late. Would they prevent him from entering if he was late? Would they cancel his Passion? Was it even possible to back out once committed? August had checked, it had never happened before — at least, not in any record he found. Did he wish to change his mind?

The sun was only rising. August took a deep breath and turned to face the nearest window. The Cathedral’s tall, other-worldly presence used to intimidate him when he was a boy. He remembered the first time he got close enough to stand in its shadow. That day had been hot and dry and dusty, and August’s feet had hurt. The cool stone street in the shadow of the Cathedral felt calming and inviting. Even in his young, inexperienced mind, August had known he’d reached the end of himself on the streets. He’d known his only hope was to surrender. August knew he had to seek help, even if he was afraid of the Cathedral — of what may be inside.

August had stepped over the threshold that day, and found one of the local ministers. It hadn’t been an easy decision, to trust them, but August was fed and clothed and given a warm bed that day. He had worked hard and earned his living there, these years, and had often felt lonely and unsure, but it was far better than the streets. And when he got older, that room… the room where those few people sought the Passion, it had called to him. He had read as much as possible about the Passion — but the knowledge was confusing and inconsistent. Most people refused to talk about what they experienced, but returned with mighty skills, dreams, and visions — visions that had propelled their society into a prosperous and abundant future. The few people who tried to explain their experiences all seemed to have nothing in common. They described journeys, battles, riddles, and nightmares — rarely with any satisfactory detail or explanation.

It had only grown August’s hunger to understand.

And some days, the call to the Passion had seemed like his only option. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to do it or felt he had to if he ever wanted to leave the Cathedral. The outside world was so big and confusing and intimidating. What if the Passion was his only way out? What if the Passion was the only way he could be strong? To not live a life where he didn’t belong — because people who survived their Passions were always needed, welcomed. They always belonged, at the very center of everything.

And August had asked the minister, the same one who had taken him in when he was a boy, if he could seek a Passion. At first, the minister, his friend, had been hesitant to bless it.

“Are you certain? The Passion is something few are willing to brave, and some never return.”

“I think I’m certain,” August had responded.

The minister hesitated a moment. “August. You won’t even leave the Cathedral.”

August knew what he meant. “I can do this. I have to do this.” He didn’t have any other choice. He felt, again all these years later, at the end of himself.

It had taken a long time, but August finally got what he wanted. His Passion.

And here he was, unsure of himself again. Was he making a mistake? How could someone too afraid of the outside world face something few out there would even consider?

August sighed and turned around. He put his hands on the carved wooden door, feeling its familiar oiled smoothness, and pushed inside.

His friend the minister waited there, alone, with a small smile.

“Hello, August. Are you ready?” He asked, as a friend.

August nodded. He looked at the stone archway, not quite believing where he was. A sudden soothing sense of peace overcame him; the archway, oddly, looked like home.

“Do you long for the Passion?” The minister asked.

“Yes. I do.”

“Will you surrender to the Passion?”

“I will. Yes.”

“Are you faithful to the Way?”

“Yes, I am.”

August tried not to fidget as he watched the minister dip his fingers into the bowl of oil and smear it on his forehead.

“I commit you to your Passion, to the Way. “ The minister sighed, stepping back. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

August nodded, staring into the archway. Home.

“You may step forward,” the minister said, gesturing to the archway. “You will be given everything you need to survive. Don’t lose faith.”

“I won’t,” he said quietly, and stepped inside.

Teresa knew herself, and that's what the wise men of old said, “know thyself.” Teresa knew she was smart, and she knew she was confident. Everything would unfold as it was supposed to. And even if things didn't go as planned — well, that was alright. That was adventure. She could handle the unknown territory between a beginning and a successful end. She could, she knew. Or, at least, that's what she imagined. And that was enough.

Everyone believed in Teresa. Everyone listened when she spoke, and felt she must be as capable as she carried herself. They expected her to partake in the Passion, and come out well, of course. Teresa knew that's what they thought, anyway. If someone could do any great thing, was it not their duty to try?

When Teresa awoke the morning of her ceremony, she smiled with excitement and apprehension. Perhaps the nerves made her move a little quicker than normal, but any fears or uncertainties were greatly overshadowed by intrigue and anticipation. This was her day. The day she had longed for, waited for, hoped for, and knew would define her. The day of her success, her glory, and her chance to prove herself.

She had told herself silly things like, “I would rather fail trying than never try at all,” even though failure was the furthest thing from her mind. Failure was like a unicorn; totally unreal to her senses, a mere fantasy other people entertained. Of course, one always fails at some things — but for Teresa, failure did not exist in her mind in the parts that mattered. A future of hope and prosperity was the only path she could see. And the Passion was going to affirm and prove it.

Teresa checked her reflection in the smooth-surfaced mirror. She had donned her white tunic and pants, and her long blonde hair was brushed and silky. Confidence and excitement radiated from her finely crafted features. She could not imagine how good it would feel to return to this mirror and gaze at her reflection after finishing the Passion. Time moved differently in the Passion, so Teresa really had no idea when she would return; but it did not matter. It was her time.

The sun was bright and hot even this early in the morning, cresting over the tops of trees and buildings and statues as she hurried along the street. Those who knew her as she passed stopped and waved, knowing where she was headed. Teresa smiled, head held high as she walked with confidence to the Southern Cathedral, to the Colosseum.

At the gates of the tall, white-stone building, Teresa simply marveled at the beautiful architecture. The man who built and designed the Four Cathedrals in the city had also gone through a Passion— and returned with a vision for what he was meant to build. Teresa doubted her Passion would lead her to a legacy of architectural genius, but she hungered to know what it could be. Many of her peers (especially those who would never actually surrender to the Passion) longed to be warriors, learning the secret arts of battle. Teresa found that a bit small-minded.

She walked through the gates, which were opened to her, and went inside. She knew the way, even though Teresa had never, of course, been into the room of the Passion. It called to her, like the tugging of a string in her gut — not an emotional feeling, but a physical one. The same feeling she had when she decided to do this.

The doors were wooden, well oiled, and carved in beautiful though confusing designs. Teresa didn’t ponder them much, and pushed inside. A small pool of people gathered there — the privilege of having a family member or close friend partaking in the Passion. Teresa grinned broadly at her parents, her siblings, and her friends. They all smiled back; some nervously, some excitedly. The Passion was no small thing to do; in fact, it was not small at all — the biggest thing her people could accomplish; or fail in.

“Teresa Avila,” the minister said, “come forward.” He gestured to the simple stone archway in the middle of the room.

Teresa obeyed, and glanced to her side at the minister. She could see nothing through the arch — it was simply an arch, only showing the other side of the room.

“Do you long for the Passion?” He asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Will you surrender to the Passion?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Are you faithful to the Way?”

“Yes, I am.”

The minister dipped his finger into a shallow stone bowl of oil, and smeared it on Teresa’s forehead.

“I commit you to your Passion, to the Way. May God have mercy on your soul,” he added, in a quieter tone.

The last comment perhaps unnerved Teresa a bit, but she faced the archway anyways and took a deep breath. Was this really it? Would she finally do it?

“Goodbye, Teresa,” her mother murmured, the only sound in the room or from the small crowd.

“You may step forward,” the minister said, gesturing to the archway. “You will be given everything you need to survive. Don’t lose faith.”

Teresa nodded, and glanced at her family a moment, before stepping up to the archway — she hesitated a moment, felt a bit paralyzed and wondered if she actually knew what she was doing — before her foot moved over the threshold, and she vanished.