On an ordinary Sunday, I sit in the plain narrow pew. It is scarred from decades of use. The eighth Station of the Cross is signed Jesus console les filles d’Israel. The brick church itself was built in the 1870s by immigrants from Quebec. Our elderly pastor, whose ancestors’ patois colors his English, reads from the Gospel of John. Jesus tells Peter: “When you are (...)
The Last Word
Where We Do Not Wish to Go
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