“One day—it was in 1842, and the springtide was struggling merrily with the May winds of New England—he stood at last in his own chapel in Providence, a priest of the Church.”

I recall standing on the porch of my Atlanta home as the Georgia pines held their breath against a sudden wind. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and unspoken sorrow. We build our temples high, yet often find the congregation empty while the shadows grow long within the walls we have raised.