Why live in a Church?

Not many people are aware that before my mother married and had six children, she was a nun. She'd correct me on this, as technically, she was a "novice". Now, if you've met my mother, you'd understand she's not a novice at anything. Either she does, or she doesn't. Period.

Mom entered the convent directly after high school. She had lost her own mom at an early age, and with no siblings, the sisters were the closest thing she had to family-- apart from a mostly-angry Irish father. Apparently, the convent is the best training ground for learning how to clean anything thoroughly, and to cook for any group of twenty or more. I'm pretty sure both these skills meshed perfectly with being the mother of six.

I once took apart an old picture frame while helping her sort out Goodwill donations. Behind the cardboard backing was the only photo that I've ever seen of mom in the nun's habit. It's one thing to know the story of your mother and the convent, but quite the shock to see the white veil and dark cloak of a then twenty-year-old mom, posed alongside her stern-faced father.

I've spent thirteen years in Catholic school in order to call myself a non-denominational believer in a greater power. My feelings about religion are complex. Churches, however, inspire a great sense of awe in me. Always have, always will. They are special places--filled with hopes and sorrows of generations of the faithful. They are architectural treasures of stained glass windows, soaring ceilings, reflective arches, scrolled woodworking, and cool marble.

When I first saw The Sanctuary Project, it was still being called The First Church Townhome Project. It was 2008, and I'd read an article in the local Seattle paper about a church conversion project that was to be sold as residences. The original architect took me through the empty building for a hard-hat tour. The interior had no natural light and was stripped to the shell. Cold and dark, aside from the vast volume of space, the inside was hard to imagine as the future homes of 12 families.

The original 20-foot high stained glass windows remained from the early 1900s, designed with geometrical patterns of leaded rectangles filled with bright blues and amber colors. And here's the thing--no religious icons at all. No Jesus, no Mary, no disciples. The images that I connect strongly with the experience of Catholic mass were not a part of the stained glass of this structure. I was intrigued with the idea of being in such a space.

I'd go on to see the property four additional times before deciding it was the perfect place to live.