A Day Wandering Through the Catholic Heartland of Hoa Son

Tracing Memories at An Ngai Parish Church

Hoa Son – A Quiet Land Where Faith Runs Deep

There are journeys you plan, and then there are journeys that find you.

That morning, with no map and no real destination, I set off on my bike, following the call of the open road. It led me to Hoa Son — a quiet parish where over 90% of the villagers live their faith daily.

Within the boundaries of this small commune, four proud parish churches rise — An Ngai, An Ngai Dong, Phu Thuong, and Phu Ha — along with two chapels, Tung Son and Loc Hoa. Their spires pierce the sky like steady hands raised in prayer, a testament to a life anchored in devotion.

An Ngai Parish Church – Where Past and Present Meet

My journey paused at An Ngai Parish Church, recently rebuilt on the very soil where the old church had stood for over a century.

The new church is more than just bricks and mortar. It is a labor of love, the fruit of nine years of tireless contributions from parishioners near and far. After four years of construction and nearly 31 billion VND, it stands today — grand, radiant, and deeply loved.

In February 2022, Bishop Joseph Dang Duc Ngan of the Diocese of Da Nang presided over its solemn dedication Mass. And although the ceremony had not yet taken place when I visited, the spirit of the community was already deeply etched into every wall, every stone.

I remembered the old church — graceful in its quiet charm. Yet the new one, towering and majestic, seemed to whisper the same ancient prayers, only louder, only bolder.

A Journey Back to Childhood

Wandering through the church grounds, I found time folding in on itself.

The rectory and surrounding buildings looked almost untouched by the decades, as if holding their breath, waiting for someone like me to return.

I was no stranger to this place. As a boy, even though my family wasn’t Catholic, my father had sent me to study at the parish school, taught by kind-hearted nuns whose white habits fluttered like angels’ wings.

I didn’t study long — just a few fleeting months before we were uprooted to Da Nang. But memories cling to the heart in strange ways. I couldn’t tell you if I had learned to read or write before we left, but I could still taste the half-loaf of bread given out at recess, still hear the creak of benches as we knelt to recite the Hail Mary.

I remembered running down the church slope to buy a stick of ice cream, wedging it between my bread like some priceless treasure.

I remembered being called to the rectory to receive American-aid clothes, fumbling to find anything that fit, and walking home in oversized, baggy outfits that made me laugh.

And I remembered the pain of catching my heel in the wheel of my father’s old Sachs Goebel motorbike, the sting of the wound, and the comfort of the local medic’s rough but kind hands.

The Church That Never Left Me

Standing there again after so many years, surrounded by the golden light of afternoon and the soft scent of old stone and new paint, it struck me —

Some places do not change because they are rooted not just in earth, but in memory.

They wait for me, like an old friend at the end of a long road, ready to welcome me home.

The new An Ngai Church gleamed proudly under the sun. Yet for me, it wasn’t just a new building.

It was a door — wide open — to the boy I once was, and to the life that had once begun here.

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Mr. Old Man, June 2022