Nearly eight years ago, I boarded the Eurostar headed to Paris. A long time Anglophile, I designated a single day for a quick tour of the most prominent Parisian landmarks such as the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame. At that time, I had little to no patience for lines. I had already skipped entering the Tower of London earlier that week because of a line. In paris, I skipped entering a different church, renown for its stained glass windows. Instead, I walked down the Seine, picturing the final scene of the Liam Neeson version of Les Miserables. Finally, the bell towers of Notre Dame rose into view. The mere sight of the famed cathedral sent chills down my spine. I walked closer, scanning for the famous iconic gargoyles. Then I spied the line and kept walking. I took my fill of the outside from a distance and felt perfectly at peace with that decision then and for the years that followed until Last Wednesday.

As most of the world knows, on the evening and long into the night of Monday, April 15, 2019, fire ravaged one of the most iconic historical buildings in the world, destroying the spire, much of the roof and much more still to be assessed. I first learned about the tragic blace a day after it happened. When we entered Moab, Utah with its reliable cell service, I pulled up my blog reading service to check the headlines. On the first page where the newest stories show first, I saw the headline where Macron pledged that Notre Dame would be rebuilt after the fire. What fire? From there I plunged down the rabbit hole. I read article after article, staring in awestruck horror at pictures of the flames, of the aftermath, of before and after photos.

While I read all I could about the scope of the historical loss, my mind flew back to the astonishing natural beauty Mom and I had been privileged to bear witness to the past three days, beauty crafted over an amount of time that made Notre Dame’s existence appear as a blip on the radar. I thought of the immense privilege we’d been granted to walk those trails, see that history, while a structure of immense religious, political, cultural, and historical value burned, damaged in a way that can never be repaired. A few moments later, I read a post from a friend lamenting the loss of history she would never see and in that instance I remembered the opportunity I casually passed by eight years ago.

In the hours and days that have passed, French President Macron vowed that France would rebuild Notre Dame in five years. Hundreds of millions of dollars have flooded in, pledged to the rebuilding of France’s most iconic landmark. Conservative protestants have used the destruction of one of Catholicism’s most prominent cathedral as their soap box from which to stand and judge the “evils” of the Catholic Church. Others stand in judgment of the enormous size of the donations while more important tragedies more deserving of the donations languish. Historians such as muchself ponder the historical ramifications of the loss, the preservation of what remains, and how the rebuilding should best proceed.

In the early days after the fire, certain things are known to be lost. Most dramatically, the spire, originally built in the 13th century, removed in the late 18th century and replaced, toppled into the ferocious, orange flames, vivid against the night sky. The centuries old wooden beams holding up the roof above the stone vaulted ceiling did not stand a chance against the ravenous fire. Debris fell like rain into the magestig nave, forming a prominent pile in front of The Descent from the Cross statue by Nicolas Coustou, a reference point in many before and after pictures which will likely need time=consuming restoration work itself having borne the effects of heat, smoke, and water. Three enormous holes in the roof expose the interior of the church to the elements which could cause future damage. The limestone walls could also be compromised irreparably because of the heat and water, making the structure unsound.

Certain artifacts, however, either escaped or survived the fire. Priceless statues held in the spire had already been removed due to the renovation work, statues which would have crashed into dust on the cathedral floor when the spire collapsed. A Catholic chaplain insisted on entering the burning church to rescue two priceless artifacts, the crown of thorns believed by Catholics to be the very crown of thorns Jesus wore on the cross as well as a tunic that once belonged to twelfth century French King Louis the Pious, so devout the church later canonized him. While I put no faith in these objects as many devout Catholics do, I recognize their immense historical significance. Finally, and most dramatically, when the smoke cleared and the dust settled, the famed Rose Windows, intricate stained glass masterpieces, survived.

On that fateful day, historical objects went up in flame, objects that can never be rebuilt, only replaced. The chance to be present, surrounded by that particular history has vanished into the smoke. In its place, the fire turned the page on a new chapter in the Cathedral’s storied history. On the upcoming blank pages, those chosen to write that new history will choose the manner in which future generations learn. Should everything be restored to the exact conditions which existed immediately prior to the fire? Should authentic materials be used or should all involved choose more durable, yet inauthentic material to fill those gaps? What will I see when I get the chance, a chance I will most certainly take, to walk through the majestic doors under the watchful eyes of those faithful gargoyles?