John Drexel

The remnant of an ancient Celtic cross worn smooth by a millennium of weather lies barely visible amid the uncut grass and slanting headstones. Broken, lichen-stained, it had once been used to mark a parish boundary; uneathed a hundred years ago and moved to clear a furrow for a horse-drawn plough; . . . . Continue Reading »

For years and years, during the dark days of war and famine, the faithful among us prayed and watched and waited for a miracle, for healing, for salvation, for deliverance from evil. In the hot weather and in the cold weather our numbers grew fewer and fewer. The memory of good things faded: fresh . . . . Continue Reading »