I went to a place which used to make me feel great. Full of people, full of sin. Full of voices and full of silence.

Mr Mechanic insisted. I did not know whether it would be suitable with four children in tow.

Our children argue and play very loudly. My boys' minds work fast and love an audience. Their naughtiness is never a private affair. His children are fragile and, usually, less stimulated. A heady, explosive combination.

We all went to this place although I had my misgivings. I was tired, the weekend trickles in a blur when there is no time for oneself, only for the others. I feared that this place might be inappropriate, although for whom... I did not quite know.

I should not have worried. We sat separately, he with his, me with mine. There was silence, and there were voices. Singing, mostly. And voices from the past, from the dead. From almost a hundred years ago, from last year. From little villages and from afar. From the young and from the old.

I could not see what his children when doing, but heard them answer a question put out to the congregation. I wa impressed. I looked at mine, completely still and listening to those voices. Singing along. Following the lines.

I should not have worried. Yes, I cried. But I felt as if I were back home. Comforted and soothed.

I have been away, I whispered. You know why I have been away.

Mr Mechanic was right.

It was the right place to go to.