Conforming to my family tradition, I said nothing about my experience at the foothills prayer group. Not even my aunt knew I had had such an encounter. However, back in San Francisco I found a church I wanted to attend. If that indescribable event took place under the auspices of one, then maybe I would find the same thing in a church close to home. I chose the church for all the wrong reasons. It had been designed by a famous architect and therefore was quite handsome, and it had a children’s choir for which the children wore adorable robes and my children could be a part of it. However, just like there is a Master Plan, there is also a Master who cuts to the chase and meets me where I am no matter what plans I’ve made.
   Every Sunday I walked my children to church, put them in the choir, and then entered the sanctuary. The minute I walked through the door I started crying, without knowing why, and I hid in a darkened corner where no one else sat and no one could see my tears. I cried through the whole service and never went forward to take communion until one Sunday which must have been written in my book in heaven.