We Prayed at the Chapel of the Holy Cross

I know, I know. If you’ve been following along, it probably feels like I’ve turned Arizona into my entire personality. 

I’ve written about red rocks, deserts, canyon drives, turquoise water that looks fake, and more sunrises than any one person deserves. If you’re bored, you’re allowed to be. I would be too if I were reading this from a couch in a place with actual seasons.

But the truth is, Arizona kept giving us places that didn’t feel like scenery. They felt like moments, and Chapel of the Holy Cross was one of those.

We came on a Sunday, which was not an accident. Amanda suggested we time it that way, partly because she wanted to see it in its quietest rhythm, and partly because neither of us wanted to visit a sacred place as if it were just another photo stop.

The Road Into Sedona, the Red Rocks Closing In

The approach through Sedona always feels like entering a different world, even when you’ve already seen the photos. 

The red rock formations rise in layers, deep rust and warm orange, with streaks of cream-colored stone cutting through like veins. Juniper and scrub cling to the slopes, and the air has that dry clarity that makes every edge look sharper.

On the way up to the chapel, the road curved gently, climbing into the rocks. I remember looking in the side mirror and seeing the town falling away behind us, and for a moment it felt like we were driving into a quieter part of ourselves, not just a higher elevation.

The parking area was busy but not chaotic, the kind of Sunday crowd you expect in a place people come to for something deeper than sightseeing. 

We parked, walked up with other visitors, and as we got closer, the chapel began to reveal itself, not like a building placed on a hill, but like something carved into the rock and anchored there on purpose.

The Chapel Built Into Stone

If you’ve never seen it in person, it’s hard to explain how striking it feels. The chapel isn’t ornate in the traditional sense. It’s modern, clean-lined, and bold, built directly into the red rock, with a tall cross-shaped structure rising upward in a way that feels both simple and dramatic.

From below, it looks almost impossible, like someone decided to put a place of worship in the middle of a cliff and then actually followed through.

Up close, the materials matter. The concrete and stone feel cool and steady, and the way the chapel meets the rock face makes it feel like it was designed to endure, not impress. 

The red sandstone surrounding it isn’t polished or softened. It’s raw, textured, and heavy, and the chapel sits against it with quiet confidence.

Inside, the light was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t bright. It was controlled, softened by the shape of the space, and then pulled toward the large windows that open out toward Sedona. The view becomes part of the interior, red rock and sky framed like a living altar.

Sunday Mass, Among People Who Came for Different Reasons

The Mass that day felt like a blend of locals and travelers, people in hiking shoes sitting beside people who looked like they had come straight from town, families, older couples, solo visitors with tired eyes. 

Some were clearly religious. Some looked like they weren’t sure what they believed anymore but still wanted to be there.

Amanda sat close to me, her hands folded, her shoulders relaxed, and I remember thinking how rare it is for both of us to sit still without needing to solve something. 

On the road, we are always navigating, planning, fixing, adjusting. In that chapel, we didn’t have to do any of that. We just had to be present.

Staying After, When the Tourists Left and the Quiet Arrived

After the Mass ended, people stood up slowly, some heading straight for the exit, others lingering just long enough to take a final look at the view framed by the chapel windows. 

The sound of footsteps echoed briefly, then softened, and little by little the space emptied until only a few of us remained.

Amanda and I stayed seated. The chapel felt different once the movement stopped. The quiet wasn’t empty. It felt held, like the building itself was designed to protect it. 

Plus, the light shifted slightly as clouds passed, and the red rocks outside looked deeper in color, heavier somehow, as if they were listening too.

What I Said When I Finally Prayed Again

I remembered standing across from Amanda on our wedding day, repeating vows I thought I understood, promising faithfulness, patience, and love without knowing how many times those promises would need to be re-learned rather than simply remembered. 

I thought about the early years in Los Angeles, the long workdays, the stress, the quiet distance that can grow when routine takes over, and how easy it is to stay together physically while drifting apart emotionally.

Then I thought about the road. About sleeping in unfamiliar places. About fixing things together when they broke. About fear, and doubt, and the nights when neither of us knew if we were doing the right thing, but chose to trust the commitment anyway.

I admitted that I hadn’t prayed in a long time because I thought I needed to have answers first. Sitting there, I understood how wrong that was.

I asked for strength to keep honoring the vows we made, not just in words, but in daily choices. I asked for wisdom to know when to push forward and when to stay still. 

I asked for the ability to keep listening, to Amanda, to myself, and to God, even when the road gets loud.

When I opened my eyes, Amanda looked at me briefly, and I knew she felt it too.