On my birthday last year, I found myself in Westminster Abbey. I had missed the time slot for tourist visits and could only enter for the Evensong program. Being a practising Muslim, I was not familiar with Anglican liturgical rites, but curiosity prevailed and so I entered.

As I walked in, my gaze was seized by the sacred art, the high vaulted ceilings, the looming majesty of a place that, over the past nine centuries, has witnessed the coronation of every English king.

A thought strolled through my mind; not a unique one but one that weighed more heavily in that moment: how many prayers have been offered here over the centuries? What dead hopes and unlived dreams hover in the air? How many hushed prayers have been uttered in communion with God, seeking good in this life and salvation in the next?

Some would have walked away and later felt that their prayers were answered. Others would have felt that they sought but did not find, that they knocked but found no open doors. And........

© The Guardian