The most dreaded words my brother and I heard as kids, every Sunday morning, were, “Boys, time to get up for church.” As a youngster church meant an hour of Sunday school where somehow all the other kids knew a lot more about the Bible than me, an hour and a half of practicing the wave, then a race to the courtyard for the promised refreshments that were usually just sugar cubes and juvenile flirtations.
But as we got older we became acolytes, which delighted my inner monk: putting on robes, carrying the cross, helping to prepare the altar. I loved the devotions, even if I eventually wandered away from the house that held them.
B and I went back to Trinity Episcopal Church at the head of Wall Street for noontime communion. Didn’t look like it was the hotspot for the daytraders. But we were treated to greeting one another in peace, hearing some passionate clergyed words, and partaking of the flesh and blood. I still have a laundry list of critiques for that bastion of stone, but being there did taste sweet.
I re-shot in color, and this time got to wander around the cemetary, where head stones from the 1700s are buzzed by cabs.