I step through the stone archway into the courtyard. It is open and empty with a ring of buildings outlining the grass-covered area. A sweep of bright flowers sway lightly in the breeze. Only a few other people walk the perimeter of the grounds, ducking in and out of the buildings that used to serve as homes, storage spaces and school rooms.
Mission Espada, the first of four quiet missions that line strategically up the San Antonio River, is vacant, a shell of something that once was. It feels eerie, decaying and mysterious. A dry well in front of the small church has been covered for safety reasons. Roofs are missing off of many of the buildings. A stray cat wanders around the grounds. At Mission San Juan, a cluster of overgrown cacti have grown up around a large rusted cross.
The missions are barely breathing with activity, though we are told there are still church services on Sunday. Inside, these churches smell just a bit musty and you can see the dust in the air where the light shines in through the foggy windows. The traditional boldly colored Southwestern stripes on the cloth covering the kneelers is worn. The paint is peeling and candle lights have been replaced with electrical stand-ins, but these are still places of worship. The groundskeepers have done an amazing job at keeping the land alive in the face of a seemingly lifeless existence.
Far away from anywhere, the snake-like road of 
