In
1991
my
parish
church
burned in an arson fire which was started in front
of the altar, my week-day meditation spot which
had become even more of an oasis of Presence
when my husband Gordon became quadriplegic
in an auto accident 4 years before. The fire was
another grievous loss. One day we’d had day
had lunch at The Aztec, gone now, bulldozed
to make room for the Old Town station. As
we schlepped through the large pottery
place next door, also gone now, I saw
this church and Gordon bought it for
me as a physical refuge, if only
symbolically.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
help of the helpless, O, abide with me.
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