There is a little Church up in a town called Callicoon, which I remember very well. The building itself was old and small, white shingles on the outside, with a few stained glass windows and a peak with a steeple like one would imagine.  This place is a memory from back when I lived on the farm as well as a moment when I came to grips with the person I used to be.

I was sent here a few times to clean the Church on Saturday mornings to make things ready for Sunday’s Mass, which, to be honest, I never felt comfortable in Churches-especially alone, and by myself, but either way, this is where they sent me.