I was on the road to nowhere. On the map, I kept to the blue highways. At night, I slept in a tent. I thought of myself as an apprentice Kerouac. Gone, Ireland. Gone, the strictures of Catholicism. Twenty-one years old, the deepest faith I had was in what might appear around the next corner.
For the first half of the journey — which is almost four decades ago now — I traveled with a friend. Tracey had been raised in a conservative Christian family in Massachusetts and, though only 19, she knew a thing or two about American churches, so we weren’t shy about crossing the threshold.
Read Full Article »