I SIGNED THE GUESTBOOK AT THE PAINTED CHURCH

A polyphonic collage of visitor experiences by Eliza Barry Callahan.

There is an old cemetery in the lava out front. There’s free parking in back. The gardener has cataracts. The graveyard is in very bad shape. Everywhere they ask for donations. It overlooks Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook took his last breath for his arrogance. We traveled by rental car. Outside, there are fruit trees like starfruit, orange, and coffee. It reminds me of Sainte-Chappelle in Paris. It looks just like this Gothic cathedral in Burgos, Spain but with tropical flair. It is objectively a beautiful place. The murals were created by a Belgian Catholic priest using donated house paint. I can only imagine what it was like when the paint was fresh–1899. I loved the representation of a good death. Hell. Lives of the saints, and so on. The century of sharp sunlight has cracked the frescos and discolored the hell panel. Color is not among things that last. Some of the panels are blank and unfinished. The painter got sick and left one hundred years ago. Perhaps, one morning we will awake and find that he has returned to finish them! But when you leave things unfinished I think that means they are actually finished… The writing was on the wall. They did have bathrooms and a little stand of fruit and jewelry for donations to the church. I have a weakness for gift shops. Rosaries.. Pens.. Melons…Buttons…. I took the red reusable shopping bag and now use it for heavy groceries–meat, milk. I used the pen to write a little wishlist for God… Trust me, I make addendums. I did not have cash on me to make a donation. I don’t trust God. I am just a historian. The walls are covered in Celandine Green—Like Beryl. Pearl Grey. Purple Hesperia. Flint. Being writers, we decided to visit the small church instead of the erupting volcano—three of us, non-practicing Jews. Went to Mass. The Creed immediately contradicted the priest’s main point. I almost walked out. We could not get inside—construction. The woman at the ABC Souvenir Shop had said to make sure we went to the right church. The one on the postcard she sold me. A few miles away, in Kalapana, there was another church which was hauled off on one truckload away from the path of the lava and dropped down less than five miles to where it sits now. That is a copycat church. This is The Painted Church. I met a very handsome volcanist there who prayed behind me and then offered me aloe vera for my shoulder and a chocolate covered macadamia. I cannot tell if it was flirtation. If you read this, here is my number 305-281-2956. It's on the top of a hill so there is a large chance you will find it is windy. Wind is my least favorite element—I don't like being caught by surprise. The view of the ocean is so wide and so blue it feels as though the eyes on your head were spread further apart when you look out. God was beguiled by his own talents here. There are all the bells and whistles of heaven on hand and the green is enchanting in an almost sinister way. Like chewed grass! It brought back memories unrelated to the moment. It took my breath away. The church was very small so with a busload of people someone was always talking and there was no chance for reverence or peace. The century was blocked off, so really no place to wait for the crowd to leave. Otherwise, it was nice. It gave me real feeling. Prayed here for a miracle for a dying friend. He recovered & drs say it was a miracle. We lit up inside. Lots of open windows and the front door propped for good cross-breeze. Looks out over the sea—above it—as if the church is a plane landing. The curve of earth is visible. Missable. Unmissable. Don’t miss this. Skip it. A bit of a shabby place. I was enchanted. I was disenchanted. Unless you like art, don’t go there. I feel a little guilty whenever I am in a church because I am a liar. I have never been in love but I would like to get married there one day if I do end up finding love. I wish my dining table was made from the wood of the pews. There was a family of rabbits scurrying under the rectory. I went there with my brothers. I went alone. When it was time to go, I did not want to leave. We brought the rain in with us on our shoes and I slipped and scraped both knees as I approached the altar. I felt so badly I had no way to clean up the trail of blood. The restroom was out of toilet paper. It’s hard for people with bad knees to get to. Praying is just one of few things you do on your knees. I got down on my knees there for the first time. They leave the doors open at night.

This piece is part of Strange Visions, our ongoing series on defamiliarization.