![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Three months ago I started telling the story of the church up the hill. Except for most of my life it was the mystery of the church up the hill.
I grew up in a Catholic family, and we lived in a neighborhood where there was a Catholic church right up the hill from us. It was easy walking distance, about 3 blocks. But we almost never attended that church, at least not that I remember. Instead we were regular parishioners at the Catholic church in the next town over— a church a 20 minute car trip away, in a town we never lived in.
It always seemed strange to me, "Why don't we attend the church almost literally in our back yard—" the strip of land immediately behind our back yard was literally owned by the church— "Instead of driving to another city?" I asked my parents many times. The answers they gave never made sense. It wasn't until I was in my 40s, and my father was on his deathbed, that I pieced together the truth to unravel this mystery.
Follow me through the jump for the rest of the story.
( Read the rest of the story... )
I grew up in a Catholic family, and we lived in a neighborhood where there was a Catholic church right up the hill from us. It was easy walking distance, about 3 blocks. But we almost never attended that church, at least not that I remember. Instead we were regular parishioners at the Catholic church in the next town over— a church a 20 minute car trip away, in a town we never lived in.
It always seemed strange to me, "Why don't we attend the church almost literally in our back yard—" the strip of land immediately behind our back yard was literally owned by the church— "Instead of driving to another city?" I asked my parents many times. The answers they gave never made sense. It wasn't until I was in my 40s, and my father was on his deathbed, that I pieced together the truth to unravel this mystery.
Follow me through the jump for the rest of the story.
( Read the rest of the story... )
