The Outage (Pt.1)

These days, I’ve been trying to come to terms with my spiritual identity. Like a kite by the sea, suddenly lifted high by a force far greater than itself—it appears to soar freely, yet trembles, caught in the strain.

After finishing Holy Week, I began to discern the shape of the commission God has entrusted to me. From the spiritual awakening in The Call, to the self-examination in Songs Map, to the intercession and watchfulness in Holy Week—all of that unfolded in less than a month.

I knew full well this wasn’t a normal pace of human growth, which is why I could no longer view my writing as merely personal devotion.

So I began to seriously analyze the texture and potential of my words. The affirmations and encouragement I received from others gave me increasing clarity: narrative nonfiction is my spiritual calling. A month ago, during a testimonial night at my fellowship, I read The Call, and afterwards, several brothers and sisters told me privately that my writing was already at a publishable level and could impact many.

And yet, I entered into an intensely lonely state of soul—lonelier than ever before.

Sunday morning, during the church service. I’ve never really liked modern gospel songs that focus on self-centered expressions of praise, but now I found myself utterly unable to sing them. I could only pray silently for those around me.

After the service, I joined a few people from the fellowship for pierogi.

It was a lighthearted, cheerful meal. I no longer had the patience to cautiously maintain immediate likeability through worldly conversational norms—whether in my native tongue or a foreign one. Perhaps to others, I simply appeared to be a quiet young woman. But what filled my body and soul was a refined sense of authority: I now clearly knew that I carried a commission from God—I was not someone “in need of validation.”

Yet after saying goodbye to everyone and walking alone down the road, I still felt lonely. From the Sagrada Família down the C-31 main road all the way home, the world bustled with color and life. But all I could do was observe it from a distance.

The next day, Monday, I woke from a midday nap to find the power out. I went out to check, and learned from the landlord’s restaurant that the blackout had swept across southern Europe. No one knew why.

There was no phone signal, no internet. I walked the streets and noticed that pedestrians remained calm, as if nothing had happened. Some walked their dogs, others sunbathed. Occasionally someone would hurry by, trying in vain to make a call on their phone.

Most of the traffic lights were out, so cars moved more slowly, but there was no traffic collapse. The subway gates were shut. Only the occasional wail of sirens betrayed that something was unusual that afternoon.

I took note of the few small grocery stores and bakeries still open, calculating how long my remaining food would last without electricity. I quietly resolved to stock up on cash after finishing my residency renewal. Memories of that long month of quarantine during the pandemic resurfaced, stirring a sense of panic.

Still, I kept wandering aimlessly, until I found myself seated on a bench in a small park. The sunlight was warm. On the branches above, glowing translucent green like emeralds, a parakeet sang freely in praise of spring. Pigeons landed from time to time, pecking calmly at the sandy ground. For a fleeting moment, I envied their power-grid-free lives—though I knew well I was worth far more than the birds.

I bowed my head and prayed to the Father, asking Him to bless the workers repairing the electrical grid, and to keep my brothers, sisters, and everyone else safe.

When I looked up, I noticed an old building not far away—clearly a church bell tower—and decided to investigate.

It turned out to be a small, old architectural complex with a somewhat eclectic style. I later found online that it was called the Sant Martí de Provençals complex. Its original date of construction is unknown, but it was rebuilt in the 15th to 17th centuries. Centuries later, the surrounding area had transformed into a cluttered urban jungle, with only a few open plazas and parks as buffers—time seemed to pause here.

It looked like a countryside village frozen within the city.

The church and the farmhouse were both locked. I stood at the gate, tilting my head to study the Gothic church façade—from the topmost stained glass window of the white dove of the Holy Spirit and the rainbow, to the sculpted image of the crucified Son between the two thieves, and finally to the Father’s face carved at the pointed arch above. Time had worn away many of the finer details, but the care of the original designer was still evident.

Perhaps without the blackout, I never would have discovered this place. But I think I’ll return again.

As I turned to leave, I noticed two sundials carved into the side walls of the houses across the street.

One of them showed a rider handing a cloak to a kneeling figure—its style rather impressionistic. Beneath it was inscribed:

“jo sense sol i tu sense fe no valem res”
(“I without sun and you without faith—we are worth nothing.”)

The other showed a simple sun, with the words:


”recorda que el temps passa camí de l’eternitat”
(“Remember that time passes on the path to eternity.”)