32
The Calverton Street Methodist Church was completely engulfed in flames when we arrived. The brick church was at least one hundred years old, and seeing it aflame saddened my heart. An icon in the middle of a dying neighborhood, it had meant so much for my future. And God knows how many funerals I had attended here, standing underneath the giant oak trees as I watched the caskets of my high school friends carried down the church’s spiral steps into a hearse.
And now the place was in flames.
Flames leapt from the roof of the ceiling against the snowy sky and spewed from the windows of the church, melting the bars over the glass.
The stained glass triangle of a black Jesus that I remembered looking up to with wonder was busted.
Three fire engines were parked outside the church, dumpi
