Gabriela Denise Frank

When Tash asked whether I’d like to join her at a Bahá’í Faith devotional on Saturday, I paused. The word “devotional” is tricky. It hearkens the forced internment of my Catholic upbringing.

At age six, it occurred to me that I saw the world differently than my fellow parishoners at St. Raphael’s. When we sang during mass, they seemed moved; when Fr. Jack gave a sermon, they appeared inspired, like they intended to carry those lessons with them into the world during the coming week. No matter how hard I tried to find meaning at church, I was left cold. It troubled me, actually.

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