Tate Publishing & Enterprises, LLC

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I’m not going to spend too much time on this, but the organization which presents itself as  “Christian”   has acted in a  disgraceful and deceitful manner.

Tate is the publisher of my last two books, and I was in the process of publishing my third book with them when they unceremoniously shut their doors.

They repeatedly told me my book “Tales From the Red Apple House” would be available for a Christmas 2016 release date.  They had no intention of doing so.

They have been hit with several lawsuits http://newsok.com/article/5539352 in which they have not paid their creditors, suppliers or vendors.

I have never received the correct amount of royalties, as is the case with hundreds of other authors.

If you would like to purchase copies of any of my books, please write to me directly at eileenloveman@yahoo.com and I will send them to you.

My books, CD’s and Kindle versions  are still being listed for sale at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and other book sites

Please don’t let these unscrupulous people profit any longer from the sale of my books.

Thank you for your support and your continued loyalty, it means the world to me.





This is the story of George and Bob, who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

George was feeling pretty good, despite the fact he was suffering from a head cold.

“Achoo!” he sneezed as he was putting on his school sweater.

“God Bless You!” yelled his little sister Francine as she ran by his bedroom door. She stopped and ran back to peak her head inside the open archway.

“You okay George?” she knew how he must be feeling, because she had just gotten better herself.


“Great” his voice watery and playfully threw his pillow at her.

“Ah!” she screamed and then ran back down the hallway to the stairs.

She stood at the top of the stairs, the only girl of three older brothers, and pulled into her lungs the aroma of breakfast downstairs. It smelled of french toast and bacon, her favorite. It was going to be a good day, she decided.

Mommy, whose real name was Madeline, was over at the sink doing some last minute dishes. She hummed while she placed the last dish into the drain, and dried her hands with a towel. She looked at the towel briefly and smiled. A faded cotton cloth, no more than a rag really, containing so many memories. It was obviously well worn, but the pictures of pumpkins and witches flying on broomsticks brought a smile to her face.

Her halloween towels were the signal of the beginning of the season. When decorating it was one of the first things to come out of the boxes, packed away in the attic. Mommy liked to fix the house up according to the holiday. Amongst the straw figures and scarecrows, ghostly cardboard drawings and cottony spider webs, there were the kitchen towels and pot holders.   Nobody knew where they came from or how old they were.  They were just always there.

And candy corn. There was always a giant glass pumpkin full of candy corn. It was the only time Mommy let them have candy (well besides Easter and Christmas) and it was something her brood looked forward to every year.

“Achoo!” she heard from behind. She turned around to face her son, nose red from sneezing and blowing, but a smile on his face just the same. He too had seen the halloween towels and was getting excited for the big night.

“Can’t wait to go trick or treating!” He announced happily. “But what should I be this year? What costume should I get?”

“Why don’t you go as a clown, your nose looks like it” offered Bob who had just come from outside. It was his turn to take out the trash for trash day and he had thrown his heavy coat over his p.j.’s.

“Very funny!”  George stuck his tongue out at his brother. He knew he was kidding, but he didn’t like his brother making fun of how he looked. It was beginning to bother him that his nose DID look like a clown’s. When was this cold going away?

“That’s enough.” Mommy told them to sit down and for Bob to get dressed.

Bob ran up the stairs but not before grabbing his own nose and yelling honk! honk!, then laughing maniacally.

Francine just shook her head and Mommy laughed. George didn’t.

The three of them sat down and silently ate their french toast and bacon, lost in their own thoughts. Bob finally came down stairs and entered the room. Mommy began to laugh and Francine stifled a giggle. George had his back to the doorway and couldn’t see his brother right away. He was getting ready to turn around when Mommy blurted out Bob! My lipstick! and then they all laughed.


Bob had covered his entire nose in red lipstick. George looked at him for a moment, then turned his head away, trying to hide his grin. His brother DID look funny, but wasn’t going to let him know it.

“Wipe your nose Bob” Mommy said, and handed him one of the raggedy halloween towels.

Everyone was still laughing and finally George could hold in his guffaws no longer and let one
out himself.

Bob was just about to wipe his nose when he felt a giant sneeze coming on. ACHOO! he said and buried his face into the cloth, wiping the red lipstick all over his face.

“You can go as Lulu the Clown!” laughed George, feeling somewhat better that he had given his brother his cold. He was done with it anyway.

“Oh yeah? Well then we can be sisters!” and Bob jumped up to run over to George, rubbing his face on his chin, spreading the lipstick further all over his face and George’s. They finally tumbled to the ground, laughing and coughing and rolling around.

Mommy looked at Francine, who had been fascinated with the idea that you could actually put lipstick somewhere other than your lips.

“It’s gonna be a good day, isn’t it Mommy?” she asked, not expecting a response.

“A good day indeed”, Mommy answered and she reached into her pocket to pull out the thin tube of makeup to line her lips with lipstick. Puckering dramatically, she reached over and planted a giant kiss on her little girls cheek, leaving a red lip outline on the side of her face. Her daughter laughed and calmly stuck a buttery slice of french toast in her mouth.

The clump of wrestling boys looked up from the floor for a moment and stopped, amazed that Mommy would do that.

But Mommy was cool. If anything, she knew how to laugh. They knew that it was always cool to laugh at yourself and not take yourself too seriously.

Because even if you had a cold, it would go away eventually.  Especially if you were lucky enough to have a goofy brother to share it with.

That’s the story of George and Bob, who were brothers.

One was older than the other.

But I forget which one.

Love Hankies


When I was a kid, I was afflicted with annoying hay fever.   I would suffer beginning from the first thaw of spring to the first frost of autumn.   My eyes would be itchy and red, and under my eyes would swell to almost double the size.   My throat would get hoarse and I wouldn’t be able to talk sometimes, and I was a heartbeat away from developing the asthma that kicks in when I am run down.

The only over the counter medication of the day was Allerest, and my mother bought it in 100 tab jars.   I can still see in my mind’s eye the tall jar of blue pills sitting in the medicine cabinet, next to the Alka Seltzer and Head & Shoulders shampoo.   Although they dried out my saliva glands (causing other problems such as dental and bowel) it did the trick.   It usually lasted about 4 hours, evidence of its effectiveness wearing off shortly before the fourth hour. An alarm clock was set so that I would wake up at 5:30 a.m. to take the first pill, and I was given a baggie with 2 more to take to school with me.

Although the clock was set for 5:30 a.m., it really wasn’t needed. My father was already up, having awakened at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for work. He would get up and cook the two hard boiled eggs and toast, the same breakfast he ate every day until the day he died at 73 years old.   He put on his suit and always made sure he had a white handkerchief in his back pocket – and an extra one for me.   White and folded in fours, it was part of his outfit every day.

“Here kid, take this” he’d say and I grab it as I rushed to the bathroom to blow my nose.   Boxes of tissues were worthless and toilet paper was a waste of money; I went through them both way too fast.   A cloth hanky was what I needed.

I had always wished that I had dainty, girly type hankies, and certainly not a man’s handkerchief.

One of my chores when I was a preteen was to iron those damn handkerchiefs. Bingo Mary would supervise.

“You missed a spot” she’d point out, if I didn’t iron straight to the corner of the cloth.   That was me – always taking the shortest route.

“What’s the difference?” I’d argue, “I’m only going to sneeze into it! Then I’m going to stuff it like this”, and I’d pick one up and stuff it into my size A bra. I didn’t develop womanly curves until I was much, much older.   I stood there with one mutant breast pushing out under my sweat shirt.

She’d just look at my mother, who would be choking on her Pepsi by this point. Bingo Mary would just shake her head and go over to the sink to fill up the teakettle with water.

“Heaven help her, Patsy”, she’s announce with a touch of a grin, Irish brogue intact.  “She’s a loony one, she is.”

 I never did get those dainty girly type hankies. I carried those thick white cotton handkerchiefs everywhere with me. It never occurred to me to just go out and buy my own. By that time, they had become part of my outfit too, just like they had become my Dad’s.   When he died, I snuck one from his bureau draw. If I put my nose into it, I can still smell his aftershave. I’ve never washed it.

Nowadays, I get immunology shots. Having been tested for various allergens and food allergies, the infamous hay fever was on the top of the list.   I make sure I dust and try to be proactive as far as food choices and other things that can set me off.

Every now and then, however, the sky will be clear and blue, and the summer breezes will blow just right, spreading the particles my way.

“Here, sweetie, take this” he’d say, and my husband will hand me his hanky. Not a white cotton one like my dads, though, but a bandana. He has a drawer full of them for he, too, is prone to sneezing and wheezing.

I smile as I honk into the soft cloth and wipe my slowly reddening nose and watery eyes. The tears aren’t from the allergies, but from the act itself.   The gesture reminds me of the gentle smile of my father and the devotion to the routine, as was his nature.   Every day, he puts on his work clothes for work, and sticks a bandana in his back pocket.

Folded in fours and part of his outfit.

Un ironed.



This is the story of George and Bob who were brothers.

One was older than the other.
But I forget which one.
George and Bob were bored.
It was a Saturday afternoon and it was raining very hard outside.
The television was off because there weren’t any good programs on, not ones they were allowed to see, anyway.
The giant grandfather clock stood against the wall of the living room, ticking and tocking and bonging every hour. It had just finished bonging two times. It was too early for dinner, even too early for snack time.


What do you wanna do, George?” asked Bob. He was laying on the living room floor, with his arms criss crossed behind his head, elbows sticking out. His right leg was crossed over his left, forming a right angle. There were leggo forms all over the floor, having just finished building a village, which he promptly destroyed as the alien Booger Breath Beast.
George was sitting on the high back green chair in the corner of the room farthest away from his brother. He was trying to read the latest book from his favorite series, Rocketman and the Rocketeers. But he couldn’t pay attention.

I dunno. What do you wanna do, Bob?

Bob was about to answer when they heard footsteps coming down the stairs, breaking the silence.
Mommy, whose real name was Madeline, had a basket full of laundry in her hands and was on the way to taking them to the basement, to do yet another basket of clothes. It seemed like most of the clothes belonged to their little sister, Francine. She was always trying different outfits on and never put them away, just left them on the floor. Mommy never knew what was clean and what was dirty, so she just scooped them up like a giant crane and washed them all.  
She had tried several outfits on this morning before going to a birthday party down the street. Her older brother Frank walked her down to the house, and then he went to go to Boy Scouts.


Whew! Said Mommy as she plopped herself down in the comfy chair near the fireplace. 
Time for a break. I wish I had time to take a nap.”

George and Bob looked each other. When they were younger, Mommy was always trying to get them to take a nap. They never would. Why was Mommy talking about naps now?

No time, though, no time.” She said as she looked absently off into space.
Several minutes went by as they listened to the rain rapping against the picture window, and tinging on the tin roof over towards the kitchen.
Suddenly, Mommy looked over at the clock. It was close to three o’clock now and the minute hand wasn’t moving very fast.
In fact, it wasn’t moving at all.
Mommy stood up and announced to nobody, “Well it’s time to wind the clock again.
George looked at Bob. He had a brilliant idea.


Mommy George said, “why do you wind the clock?
Mommy was looking in the desk drawer for the special key she used to wind the clock. It was usually in the top draw, but she seemed to be having trouble finding it.


What honey? Mommy answered. She wasn’t paying attention.


Why do you wind the clock? He asked her once again.


Yeah, why do you wind the clock, Mommy?” Bob asked as well.

Mommy looked at them as if they had lost their mind.  “Why? Well, if I didn’t no one would know what time it is.”

George looked at his brother with a big smile on his face.


Well, wouldn’t that be a way to stop time?”

Mommy stopped and stared at her two little boys with intensity.  The saying out of the mouth of babes ran through her head.
Yeah, Mommy” said Bob. “That way you would have more time to do nothing. Maybe even take a nap” he ventured.
Mommy slowly walked back over to the comfy chair and sat back down.


“You might be right, boys” she smiled.

“I can’t stop time forever. Time goes on whether we want it to or not. It’s how babies get big and flowers grow tall. How food gets grown and seasons come and go.”


“But maybe I can take a nap. Just for now. You both stay in the room here with me, okay?”

And she laid her head back on the fluffy part of the chair and closed her eyes.
Pretty soon she was snoring lightly, her breathing slow and her mouth open ever so slightly.
George and Bob went and got an afghan from the bedroom and put it on Mommy’s lap and pulled it up around her chin.
They smiled at each other and then gave Mommy a kiss on a cheek.
Mommy smiled in her sleep.


Then they went and got their green army men out of the toy box and pretended she was a mountain, planting the plastic platoons on her shoulders and on her lap. They stuck soldiers in between her fingers and hid them in her hair.
It was a good day.
And that’s the story of George and Bob who were brothers.
One was older than the other.
But I forget which one.
*From “George & Bob Stories: Life Lessons From Little Brothers”

The Infinite Frog



The final words I heard last night before drifting off to sleep were these:“Just so you know – there’s a toad in the living room.”

Thus continues the never ending saga of my cat, Garfunkle, and his determination to bring us every conceivable essence of wild life.

Upon hearing those words, I didn’t open my eyes. All I could do was ask for clarification.

“Is it really a little toad, or is it big, like, you know, a bull frog?”

I don’t know why I asked, it really didn’t make a difference. There was an amphibian in my living room.

“A frog.”

I could hear the smile on his lips, the laughter in his voice.

“A frog. The Infinite Frog.” I smiled to myself then, it having conjured up a memory.


But I was already asleep. My mind took me back to me standing at the altar of one of the city churches I managed, included in the armful of several that the Bishop intended on closing.

I was in the process of creating a poster containing different statutes within the church, as well as portraits of priests who had served the community. This little church, to me, looked no bigger than a garage. But it had been host to the grandest of weddings, the modest of baptisms, and the air had been filled with choirs of true little angels, singing for all the world to hear – or at least this part of the city. It was a conglomeration of memories and ideologies, and overlay of feelings captured by a photographer I had hired for this purpose.

He was also a musician, but was equally talented as an image weaver. He clicked and snapped and shot the pictures of statues and paintings, at every conceivable angle and level, sometimes twisting his body into unimaginable poses to get the perfect frame.

Every Catholic church has an “Infant of Prague” statue – it usually sits as a greeting to all who enter. Whenever I asked him to take a picture of this, however, he would look at me quizzically and seemed to blow it off.

I couldn’t understand his blatant refusal to take a picture of this very sentimental statue – and I asked him why.

“Why won’t you take a picture of the Infant of Prague?”

He looked at me and a smile began to fill his face.

“Say that again, will you?”

So I repeated The Infant of Prague and he then told me what his dilemma was.

In my own unenviable way, my Queens accent seems to come to the forefront of the most inopportune times.

“I thought you were saying “The Infinite Frog.”

We had a great laugh, and he continued to snap away. I never thought of it again until the announcement of the one visiting.

Which brings me back to my friend in the living room.

Hopefully he will have hopped out the way he came in, but I thought it odd that a frog would decide to spend the night.

I guess everyone needs an Infinite Frog to look after them.

© 2009 Eileen Loveman – 4/7/16

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Obla Dee, Obla Da

They come back every year at this time.

The Ooo-bid-dee birds.

Actually, they are Orioles. Bright orange breasts and black beaks, the Orioles came to nest near my old house in the City every year.

His mate, not as flamboyant or flashy, would sit next to him on the cable wire near my yard.  With a bird feeder always stocked, he’d swoop down and grab some seed in his mouth to deliver to her as she waited in her place patiently, never moving. She never seemed to want to go retrieve the seed herself and was content to accept his gift to her time and time again.

He would lean over and place the seed in her open mouth, and after every mouthful he would sing to her, making the loud and cooing “ooo-bid-ee ,  ooo-bid-ee” sound that I loved to listen to. They could go on for hours.

It was that sound I looked forward to every Spring to announce the arrival of the new season, just as I await the arrival of the sound of the honking geese in the Fall. To me it seemed the announcement of true love for all the world to hear. How I longed to hear someone sing to me that way.

I was feeling sad that I would not hear the duet from the two lovers ever again, as my location had changed and I am a different listener now. Until this year.

They followed me. I have heard them here out in the country after so many years.

It’s as if they are telling me “Love still exists, it’s in the air” for all to hear. Right outside my bedroom window in the room built just for me and him, before the sun has fully risen.

There they were again, singing.

Reminding me I had found my my own Ooo-bid-ee bird to sing with again.


The Little Church By Another Lake

images[1] (16)I love to get in the car and drive.

I could go for miles, sit for days behind the wheel. Taking in the sights and sounds and smells of little towns and hamlets, big city worries in my rear view mirror. It’s a form of therapy that only cost me as much as the fuel to gas up my car.

I had received an invitation by a preacher in a church 30 miles away from my city home. She wanted me to listen to her preach the Gospel for Palm Sunday. She had discovered several of my essays and felt a particular connection with a few of my pieces. She asked would I give her permission to use various passages in the context of her homily? Her lenten message and prelude to the most holiest of weeks in the catholic faith, the Triuudium, the week before Easter. She felt my words would connect with her congregation.

I was thrilled beyond words that she wanted to quote me. I was honored and jumped at the chance to drive out to her little country church, thirty miles from my safe haven and from the people I knew. It combined two of my favorite things to do. The aforementioned driving and another hobby of sorts. Checking out other churches and faiths other than my own.

I look at other faiths from time to time just out of curiosity. It’s not a time for comparison or one upmanship or to see which faith is “better.” I view it, rather, as a new way to visit with God.

The other part of the fun is checking out other catholic churches purely for architectural and aesthetic reasons. I like to see how other communities “do it”, as opposed to my own continuity. Again, not to compare, but to enjoy. I like to look at the various icons that particular community has chosen for worship and how they have adorned the altar, positioned the statues.

Someone used to tell me I could smell a Catholic Church ten miles away. They were amazed I could find these little sanctuaries set far back or in out of the way places, apart from main streets or highways. If they knew what my “secret” was, they would feel foolish indeed.

It’s simple. Churches usually have a giant cross erected atop the highest steeple of the building. They were put there for a reason; for the faithful to be able to find it. All one needs to do is look to the horizon and you will see it. It will call to you and lead you towards it.

After filling the car up with gas, checking the road map and filling my thermos with coffee, I drove off to the highway to begin my trek. It was a beautiful, sunny, Spring morning, the first after a long, dark winter. It was 9:00 a.m. and the mass I wanted to attend didn’t start until 11:30 a.m. Plenty of time to get lost in the journey and take in the aura of another place, where I envisioned time would be slower, roadways kinder, and space expansive.

I didn’t know what to expect, unaware of what I would find.

Little did I know my journey would lead me to a place of peace and great joy.

Little did I know, I was heading home.


I had arrived at the little church earlier than I expected.

Traffic was light and I had not gotten as lost as I thought I might, only making two wrong turns in the process.

Some street signs were missing, but I realized quickly the residents didn’t need the markers to take them on their frequent travels down familiar streets. They were on autopilot, unlike me, who have been lost most of the time.

I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was in the middle of a field, with only some cows, ducks and two sheep to ask for directions. Not only was I no longer in Kansas, Dorothy, I was somewhere East of the Rockies.

Like my prayer so many times before, I asked God to please, set me on the right path.


This time I really need the right road to get to where I need to go.

My soul was calling to that little church, and to see the woman preacher who had felt the connection with my words to proclaim to her parishioners. It wasn’t enough for her to tell me she was doing it. I had to hear it for myself.

I backtracked a few miles and came to a fork in the road.

All roadways unmarked, I took the chance and turned left.

Success! I had found the connecting roadway and continued on. Going a few more miles and feeling I was getting closer to my destination, my eyes began to scan the horizon before me, looking for the tell tale cross.

My eyes found the crucifix to the east, a turn off from the highway. I stayed on the road, adjusting the radio, as the music was fading away. Within minutes, I was lost again, ending up on a dirt road.

What is it, Lord? What are you trying to tell me?

Why I didn’t just give up and go home, I’ll never know. But I turned around, and found the right road again by looking for the cross.

Down steep hills and brown fields, for the rains had not yet fed the greenery, I ventured further down to a small clearing, where I would clearly see the white of the steeple.

I had found the church. Or had it found me?


It was nearly 10:30 a.m., an hour before the start of Mass. I pulled into the gravel parking lot, empty at this early hour. I drove to the furthest part of the lot and backed in. Turning the engine off, I sat back in my seat, unfastening my seat belt as I looked around me.

What a peaceful and sweet place, I thought. This was truly a respite for someone accustomed to the daily grind of doing the things that needed to be done. A woodpecker worked away on the tree behind me, his schizophrenic taptaptaptaptap a relaxing rhythm. I thought about the residents here and what led them to live here. How had they found it? It reminded me of the church I attended when I was a child.

The bells in the steeple began to toll the hour. Eleven o’clock, already?

A few cars began to pull into the parking lot, those obviously connected with the service.

A woman driving a Range Rover parked a few spaces over from me and smiled, her eyes questioning what are you doing here?

As she got out, she unloaded her equipment, a guitar and a canvas bag, marked with a G clef on one side, and sheet music on the other. Clearly, she was the church musician. Focused, but in no particular hurry, her determination to begin her task was not slowed by noticing the blonde woman in the car. She probably thought I was a city slicker, a refugee who had ended up on the wrong path and ended up in an unknown town.

For I immediately surmised I was overdressed, and would look ostentatious with my blue suit, matching pumps and handbag. I would stick out like a sore thumb, taking the attention off the task at hand and putting it on myself, had I gotten out of the car. The church was small, and would groan to hold 60 people. This was a place that did not boast of material possessions. It didn’t look like a struggling, poor city church. But they did not flaunt anything here. Just filled the building to the brim. Like when I was a kid.

“The service doesn’t start until 11:30” she said, not looking directly at me.

“Thank you. ” I answered, smiling as humbly as I could behind the visor.

“I wasn’t quite sure where this church was, so I came a little early. I’d like to sit out here for a while, if that’s ok.”

“Sure” she answered sweetly, finally meeting my gaze. “I just wanted you to know that.” With that, she went inside.


11:15 a.m. and the cars were beginning to arrive all at once, as if on cue and a gateway had been opened. They pulled into the gravel parking lot, filling in their predestined spaces, no white lines needed here. They glanced briefly my way, for this was a car that usually wasn’t there. I was probably parked in someone’s “space.” There was an air of mystery beginning to develop and I decided I like the anonymity, enjoying the feeling of being a stranger in a new land, my own Jerusalem.

I began to hear faint singing in the background, traditional old hymns sung on this day, Palm Sunday, the time of the Passion readings. The parishioners had gathered outside to begin the procession into the church, after having received a palm which had just been blessed. It had begun.

Mothers and fathers with young children, young newlyweds, and grandparents stood in line, awaiting to process in. I was frozen in my seat, for suddenly I felt so out of place, so disconnected from the people in the church, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get out of the car.

I watched as the Priest and a woman dressed in red led the congregation into the little church. I surmised she was the preacher who had invited me, but now was not the time to chat or small talk, or thanking her for inviting me.

I sat a few minutes more in the car, timing the space between the opening prayer and the readings. The reading of the Passion was long on this Sunday, as it is every year, and I knew I would have a little time to sit before the Preacher would begin her homily.

I walked up to the front door and realized I would not be able go in and sit down. The people were standing, every pew full, and the closest I could get was to the vestibule. The doors were closed and I could see her face through the little window in either swinging door that led inside. But I could hear her strong, clear voice, as if I was standing next to her.

In the beginning, she didn’t see me. She read her homily, pausing at the places she wanted to make a point. She had begun by smiling and asking the question “Where do we go with this story?” and added her own interpretations.

When it came time to quote my words, she glimpsed my face in the window, our eyes locking for a brief moment. If she realized who I was, her face didn’t show it, never stopping to proclaim my belief to the congregation and confirm everything I had written.

She understood what I was saying. She understood my passion about the Passion.

What a wonderful gift she had given me. As she read my name, tears gathered in my eyes. I began to feel the peace and the warmth I had felt when I first pulled into the gravel parking lot, remembering the church of my youth. I have come home, I thought. I am home.

As soon as she finished, I turned to leave. Still not realizing she had spied me, she walked through the swinging doors to find me turning the corner to head towards my car.

“Eileen?” She asked in a faint voice, as Mass was continuing, the communion rites being read.

I turned to face her and my smile was from east to west. “Thank you” I said, as I hugged her. “Thank you for sharing my heart.”

“Thank you for writing it, and allowing me to proclaim it” she said. “You don’t have to leave, you know, you can come back inside.”

I know, I smiled. But not today. I will be back.

I will go back. I know now that I am welcome.

To the little Church in the country by the lake.


The town has grown and the Little Country Church was bursting at the seams – so it and another parish nearby combined their finances and spirits and built a much larger, more magnificent church in the center of the town.

I have been to the bigger church and it is indeed beautiful, and one can see the love and thought that went into the planning of the new worship space.  I will most likely go there for Easter this year again.  But I will always hold dear the feeling I had as I spied the preacher through the doorway, and hearing her read my words, interwoven through hers.

I am still passionate about the Passion.


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