Last weekend, my husband and I were driving on a curvy, two-lane road in a rural, mountainous area of the Catskills. It was the first night where we really felt the tart, early autumn chill, and even though it was only 9 p.m., it was already as dark as a December night. As we rounded the bend, we spotted a beautiful 19th-century church perched high up on the hill. It was one of those nicely proportioned white, clapboard churches you see all over New England, with a strong, cheery steeple that was lit by outdoor spotlights. Soft light came through a few of its windows, casting shadows across the evergreens on the lawn in front.
Looking at the church, I had a full-blown epiphany: “I could believe in God.”
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