By Seattle standards the house Big Papa and I live in, aka Urban Cabin, is really old. It was built in 1898. Not many houses or buildings in Seattle are that much older. I grew up in a house built in the 1950s, however in the Syracuse area there were homes that hark back to the Civil War era, and probably a smattering of houses or establishments dating even earlier.

Visiting Armenia was a lesson in contrasts. Yerevan is a young city in many ways. Much of the city was built between the two world wars and is classic “Stalinist” architecture built according to Alexander Tumanyan’s 1924 master plan to turn Yerevan. Most of the buildings and apartments we saw were examples of Soviet-style architecture.

Yet Yerevan is an ancient site. Barely a block from the apartment where we stayed rests a church, Katoghike, parts of which were built in the 1200’s. During the five days we spent in Armenia we also visited churches dating back to the 7th century and Hripsime which was built in 618 AD and stands at the eastern edge of the city of Echmiadzin.

It’s astounding to imagine what those buildings have seen in their lifetimes, the changes in surroundings and people and government. Because there is very little to show the progression from old to new, the stark differences between the Soviet-era and ancient Armenia are striking.

In 1924 Yerevan was a small, provincial town. From what I’ve read the leaning houses, small shops, restaurants, eating houses and baths were all demolished and replaced by new buildings. That is what makes the story of Katoghike church so mesmerizing.

It is the oldest surviving church in Yerevan, surrounded by a large empty courtyard lot and many blasé building and businesses. Slated for destruction in the name of urban renewal in 1936, some archeologists bartered with Stalin to oversee the dismantling of an old cathedral on the site so they might record any inscriptions and rescue architectural fragments they found in the rubble.

As the walls came down, a tiny sanctuary appeared. Like a pearl in an oyster, a church within a church emerged. Public outcry was so enormous that this ancient relic might be destroyed, and Katoghike won a reprieve.

Each day when we got up to start our day, we passed that little church. People were always coming and going, paying their respects and taking a moment to reflect and pray inside the small sanctuary. When the sky was clear and blue, the stone walls resonated with a lovely salmon pink glow. On days we awoke to clouds, Katoghike was deep slate gray.

Katoghike has bravely, and somewhat miraculously, stood the test of time. Like the old blue train in ‘The Little Engine that Could,’ saying “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can,” as it chugged up the mountainside.