I can still hear the quiet. Sitting alone in the sanctuary,  the smell of the candles and the faint aroma of recently  burned incense add depth and richness to the darkened room.  I sit and watch the reflection of a small candle,encased in blood red glass,  flicker and dance upon the golden metal rays that surround and radiate from the glass encased Eucharist.

I guess some would think it strange that an eleven year old boy would spend recess  sitting silently in a darkened church, but I  enjoyed  those times of quiet solitude more than anything else in life,  except perhaps playing little league baseball. No, I must be honest, at that time in my life,  baseball definitely was more enjoyable.   As long as I can remember,  I have always believed in this gently loving Jesus and have enjoyed His peaceful presence.

I know that many Protestants believe that the icons of the Roman Church  were not much better  than the idols of the old pagan religions,  but for me, gazing at the life like representation of the crucifixion, moved me deeply as a young boy.  The form on our crucifix was almost as large as the body of a full-grown man.  While not realistic enough to be gruesome,  the knees of the Savior were broken open and bleeding.  As a young boy,  I could understand that pain.

As a youth I had a tender heart for the Lord. I can remember, as if it were yesterday,  the story of the rich young ruler.  Before Vatican II, most of the Mass was in Latin, but the sermons were in English,  and Father Fisher was a very good speaker.  "How could anyone not follow Jesus?" I had wondered to myself as a preschooler, and this conviction stayed with me well into high school.

I wonder what my life would have been like if I had stayed in the small Kentuckytown of 700 souls.  Perhaps I would have strayed just the same,  or even worse, I would  let my faith become entombed in the prison-like doctrines of man. Without the questioning, perhaps there would not be the depth.  This gives me some comfort as I watch my teenage children rebel  and stray from the path.  At any rate, the path I now travel is not so different as the one I was on as an eleven year old sitting quietly, feeling close to Jesus, in the converted roller skating rink that was St. Sebastian's Catholic Church of Calhoun, Ky.

And so begins my story.