It was a small church in the country, about five miles from where we lived in Virginia Beach, Virginia. This is where my mother took us every Sunday—my brother, sister and me. It was an Episcopal church built with brick and wood like so many buildings in that part of southeastern Virginia, marked and influenced by the colonial past. We went reluctantly, my brother and I, especially in the summer, when baseball and barefooted freedom called to us. But there was no question of not going.
Richard, these stories are a bright spot in my inbox. Thank you for this one. It reminds me of Easters when I was a child, and I too loved them, but that magic largely gone.
Richard, these stories are a bright spot in my inbox. Thank you for this one. It reminds me of Easters when I was a child, and I too loved them, but that magic largely gone.