In a narrow pew in an old wooden church, a little girl knelt, stood, and prayed next to her sister. Stations of the cross were well underway. Father Lombard, accompanied by three altar boys: one carrying the processional cross, the other two carrying tall candles, on either side of the priest. The little procession went from station to station, and read the narrative by Alphonse Ligouri.
Young as I was, I got it. I followed the story. My heart was stirred. Sadness filled my thoughts. My eyes filled and poured down my cheeks, quietly dripping into my collar. A lump formed in my throat and it was a struggle to keep my sobs in check.
I didn't understand. How could people be so cruel? What had He done?
Why? Why?
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