Stand still long enough, and the world quiets until the ship’s horn calls out. It blooms on Sunday mornings, signaling new voyages and dreams. The cruisers arrive, children’s faces bright with joy. Parents, weary from miles of travel to Galveston, now prepare for the greater journey by sea. Here, Sundays sing a gentler song—a world suspended in joy.
The horn’s call weaves through the harbor, past the Strand, drifting along Broadway to our porch. It’s followed by the ship’s theme music—a siren’s call to adventure. For a moment, life sheds its burdens, whispering “Bon voyage.” Those who heed it cast aside their cares and let wanderlust take hold.
Adi and I share a knowing smile. The horn tells us it’s Sunday, our cherished day. Through those travelers, we dream each week, their journeys sparking memories that last a lifetime.
Sundays unfold like acts in a play, marked by grace. Many start in church, but Adi and I seek silent prayers at home. I left church long ago, feeling we need no surrogate to touch the grace of God. The direct path has always called me.
Ironically, the church keeps its eye on me. St. Patrick’s looms across the street, silent and judging. My mother must have the last laugh, always saying, “The church watches even when you don’t know it’s watching.” I suspect she commissioned St. Patrick as her spy. The cathedral stands mute, bell silent, gaze watchful.
As kids, Sundays were about two churches: Saint Irenaeus and Saint Boniface. My mother insisted on Mass, and we could choose between them. For my brother and me, the draw was coffee and donuts. We strategized, choosing which parish to attend simply for the treats they offered. No donuts, no mass. It was a simple equation.
In my youth, donuts defined Sundays—sweet, rebellious, indulgent—standing as worthy adversaries to church doctrine. Offering a break from the ordinary, they were a soft rebellion, bringing solace no prayer could grant.
Once I could buy donuts myself, I left the church, seeking new spiritual horizons. Years later, Galveston found me, a land of churches both grand and humble. In these sacred structures, their architecture tells tales of history and community.
The island is rich with historic churches, each a testament to its past. From St. Mary’s Cathedral Basilica to smaller sanctuaries, these structures stand, relics of resilience and faith. Their steeples and stained glass witness countless stories, maybe even holding more spiritual truth than those who pass through.
Galveston loves a church, and these sacred walls vigilantly watch over the Queen of the Gulf.
Sundays often draw us to the Strand, where travelers drag bags over cobblestones, leaving temporary homes for new adventures. When they depart, silence follows the bustle. The air is rich with whispered stories. On warm days, we visit the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory for a Tiger Butter apple, shared as we walk the Strand. In winter, we drink tea or drive through with seat heaters on, windows slightly fogged.
When rain comes, we retreat to the Big House. The symphony of rain and wind plays on the copper roof, weaving stories and dreams. Inside, the warmth comforts us, making departure unthinkable.
Further along, the San Luis Hotel sits atop a hill, gazing at the Gulf. Its lobby is elegant, inviting. From the front doors, the Gulf stretches, a timeless allure. Adi and I often visit for brunch, savoring the buffet with a Gulf view.
Galveston moves to the Gulf’s rhythm, waves murmuring, offering comfort. The air, salt-laden and romantic. Pelicans glide as stormy veils lift, revealing tranquil beauty. This is the magic of Sundays.
As evening approaches, the day ends with a sunset of masterful hues. The sun sinks below the horizon, fiery colors melting into the Gulf—a testament to nature’s artistry and the sea’s unwavering beauty.
Each heartbeat of Sunday enshrines simplicity and elegance, untouched by life’s rush. Beneath the sky, we cherish moments, weaving memories bright as sunlit waves.
In these gentle pauses, we uncover life’s elegance—not in destinations, but in memories gathered, step by step, heart by heart. Sundays invite us to explore within, to find beauty and let it guide us through the week. This is my religion.