Photo page

In 1978 I had a student church in Danville, Maine. Each Sunday, I drove my little orange Toyota a hundred miles down I-95 to preach and do what little church work I understood. They taught me the joy of brown bread and beans, that I could enter the pulpit fifteen minutes after doing a 360 on black ice and do OK, that preachers come and go but congregations remain, and how to say goodbye when the neatest lady in the church dies of cancer. Small churches can be very rich places.