I am home. in Holy Hell.

“Holy Hell!” is what I said aloud when I looked at the portrait of St. Agatha holding her breasts on a platter in a chapel dedicated to her within the Royal Palace in Barcelona. It was my introduction to her so I did some research and found out how the story goes. Born in Sicily around 231 AD, she became a consecrated virgin, meaning she chose to dedicate her life to God instead of a man. Later she became a martyr. This was after Quintiamus, a supposed diplomat, was enraged by her refusal to marry him and her rejection of his advances. He ordered her breasts cut off as punishment, then imprisoned her and tortured her in many ways, while she remained true to herself. Legend has it that while she was imprisoned, she was healed and her breasts restored and the Q man, further enraged, ordered her burned alive. That is how she died in 251 AD at the age of 20.

Thinking about some of the narrator’s relationships with men in I am home. I felt a kinship with Agatha and spent time there enjoying the energy in that space near her portrait and the alcove, talking to her about courage and integrity, and telling her about experiences with refusing men almost two-thousand years later. I looked for a sign noting it was her chapel, for a sign about the painting and her life, looked for the painter’s name to no avail, and noticed on all signage of the chapel there was no mention of Agatha on the premises other than her name painted in the halo around her head. An internet search on St. Agatha’s Chapel will turn up St. Agatha’s Royal Chapel, and more. Yet, for some reason, mention of her story is omitted within this inspiring and beautiful space. I asked a woman who was touring the chapel if she knew about her and her story and after she shook her head, I told her what I knew. She then bowed before Agatha’s portrait. I wondered why there were no pews in the nave, no place to rest, other than a few low square stools off to the sides in the alcoves placed in front of televisions to watch videos about Barcelona. No mention of Agatha there, either. I slid one of the stools in front of Agatha’s portrait and under the center point of the vaulted ceiling and let all that energy charge me. I felt at home.