I’m not sure exactly when I began dreading parish-council meetings, those monthly assemblies of parish staff, elected parishioners, and sundry officeholders. It might have been the forty-seventh time the Knight of Columbus made us clench our politically correct teeth by outlining his grand plan to sell Tootsie Rolls “for the retarded.” It could’ve been the meeting at which the pastor showed us a picture of a frightening statue of St. Lucy that a family wanted to donate to the church. He made...
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