In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

60 The One Place Most Sundays we don’t attend, never did except the fall my father died, and went then because we had just moved to Minnesota— new job, relocation—and feeling lost, Blue and I turned to what we’d each known as children when once a week we’d suffered the hard pew, listening and praying, mostly squirming, as we waited for something to take hold. But year after year when we go fishing, most often in spring, boat trailer in tow, and get ahead of ourselves with anticipation of the largemouths waiting in the lily pads and miss the narrow lake road to the right, its sign hidden by an overgrowth of myrtles, especially when it’s early and still dark, that’s when we look for the steeple and empty parking lot.The one place open 61 without a locked gate, without a guard dog or chain or NoTrespassing, the one place allowing us— before we’ve gone too many miles in the wrong direction—to enter its wide, forgiving drive and turn around. ...

Share