I popped into my parish church today. I haven’t been there in quite some time; nearly a decade in fact.
The church has a specific meaning to me; it’s where my family are buried, it’s where I was baptized and received the sacraments. Above the door stands a stone commemorating my great, great, great grandfather who, in 1818 paid for its construction; the first church where we could worship after the two centuries-long persecution of the Reformation.
Family tradition says that he was…