The view of a bell tower from the street in Assisi.

The old woman knelt down at St. Francis’s tomb. Her head tilted forward in prayer. Her hands gently folded on the metal fencing that circled the burial place. She stayed completely still for several minutes—lost in her thoughts. When she finished, she took a small snap shot of a child out of her pocket and reached beyond the fence to place it with many similar photos placed in the shrine. She squinted at them through her thick glasses, kissed the fence and then turned to leave.

The Basilica of St. Francis is considered a major pilgrimage site for Christians in Italy and the world. People travel hundreds and thousands of miles (or kilometers) to pray in this exact spot. Me—I’m not a Christian. In fact, I am not really anything. My earliest memory of religion stems from first grade when a classmate told me I was going to Hell for not being baptized. Several attempts at conversion followed, but I soon realized that I would rather play wall ball instead of contemplate the eternal damnation of my soul. Since then, I have kept organized faiths (particularly Christianity) at arm’s length. After time passed, I found myself thinking that I was incapable of believing in a higher power.

However, after traveling to Assisi—one of the Christian capitols of the globe—I can’t help but feel the permeation of faith. I watch as people light candles, say blessings, pray for loved ones, and I am touched by their spiritual connection to a god. I envy them their ability to believe and their ability to pray.

Fellow student Pauline is lighting a candle in a church in Assisi.

In April 2007, my father passed away from lung cancer. We took him to a Catholic hospital in Sacramento called Mercy San Juan. Once, while I was visiting him, a nun came in to console him. He politely declined, telling her that he doesn’t believe in an afterlife. Since then, my family has faced several bouts with cancer and death. Religion figured in to some of these circumstances. In other cases, it didn’t. But what I remember the most about my father’s illness was that I realized I didn’t know how to pray for him. Since then, the concept of prayer seemed like my version of the Holy Grail—something invaluable and out of reach.

Back in St. Francis’ crypt,  I am overwhelmed by the desire to try. I spot an empty space on the pew next to a young Italian man. He looks at the snap shots inside the metal grating, his hands clasped at his chest. I copy him, but my attempts draw his attention. At first I am terrified that he will think that I’m teasing him, but he smiles and (as if knowing of my inability) he demonstrates a prayer for me. Again, I copy him.

After a long silence, I begin to feel my anxiety melt away. I don’t ask for anything. Instead I try to listen. Although I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t feel alone. After some time passed, I got up and passed by the faces in the snap shots. They were looking at me and smiling. I was smiling too.