Sunbeams in the Courtyard: Finding God in a Moment of Stillness and Motion
It’s Sunday, January 2026. Zagreb is gripped by a deep freeze, the kind of winter morning where the air bites the moment you step outside. At the Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Palmotićeva Street, the grand old building is still cloaked in scaffolding, recovering from its own wounds. Mass is held in a modest temporary space in the courtyard, but that morning, I found myself drawn to the open air.
The temperature was well below freezing, yet the sun was blazing with a defiance that ignored the calendar. I chose to spend the hour standing in a small patch of golden light that hit the pavement. I wasn't alone. I was surrounded by a handful of parents with restless toddlers, their cheeks flushed red by the cold. And then there was me—a man in his prime, yet someone who has spent a lifetime struggling to keep his feet, and his heart, still.
The Lifelong Sentence of a Wooden Desk
For most, Mass is a time of stillness. For me, it has always been a battlefield. Diagnosed with ADHD back when we didn't really have a name for it, sitting in a school desk was the ultimate punishment. While others talk about high school with nostalgia, I remember it as a slow-motion prison sentence. I can still feel the jitter in my legs, that desperate urge to be the first one to bolt through the doors when the bell rang. That first gasp of fresh air was my only version of "Amen."
Even now, my mind is a wanderer. I often confess this—my inability to be the "perfect" parishioner who sits stoically in the front pew. But standing there in the courtyard, pacing back and forth in a twenty-yard stretch of sunlight because there were no chairs left, something shifted. The sun hit my face, the warmth seeped into my skin, and suddenly, I wasn't in Zagreb anymore.
A Teleportation to the Hills of My Youth
I was back in seventh grade, in my hometown of Našice. I could feel the sharp, crystalline air cutting through my lungs and see the packed snow on the hill behind our houses. Everything came rushing back: the adrenaline, the dopamine, the sheer serotonin of being alive. The sleds were fast, the track was slick, and the school was a world away.
Back then, I lived entirely in the moment. Imagination wasn't an escape; it was my reality. Standing in that courtyard, it hit me: God was with me on that hill just as much as He is with me now. I didn't know how to pray then, and I hadn't yet learned how to carry the weight of sin, but I was present. And presence, I’ve realized, is its own form of worship.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6:34)
In the shadow of the scaffolding, under that winter sun, those words stopped being a cliché and became my lifeline.
The Timeless Point: Between Fear and the Smell of Pancakes
The reality I live in today is harsh. I am seriously ill, and that is the core of my struggle. The anxiety of "tomorrow" is a constant shadow. How will I feel next month? Will I be bedridden? Will I become a burden? These are the jagged edges of a world that frequently cuts me.
But during that Mass, as the priest walked by us "sun-seekers" and whispered with a smile, "Soaking up the sun, are we? Well, you're exactly where you need to be," the fear evaporated.
My mind was on a sledding hill in the 80s, but my soul was standing right in front of Jesus. Past and present collided to tell me one thing: stop trying to fix a future you can't control. The sight of smoke curling from nearby chimneys, the laughter of the children around me—it felt like being back in the womb, or better yet, walking into the kitchen to the smell of my mother’s pancakes.
Conclusion
I went home that day feeling more "full" than I have in years. I didn't sit in a pew. I paced, I shivered, and I let my thoughts drift back to the snows of my childhood. But I heard every word of the Gospel. I felt every prayer.
I’ve realized that God doesn't demand I be a statue. He just wants me to be there. I am a restless man, a sick man, and a worried man—but in that courtyard, I was a man bathed in light. In that timeless intersection of winter and warmth, of memory and pain, I found a peace that surpasses understanding. And for today, that is enough.
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