The Weight of Morning Mist In the soft morning light filtering through stained glass, I stood at the threshold of our church, heart full of carefully crafted welcomes and thoughtfully woven prayers. Yet somehow, I remained as translucent as the incense rising to the rafters. Oh, beloved, I see now the gentle irony. The same voices that penned passionate pleas for “women priests” floated past me each Sunday, their eyes searching distant...
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