stations of the cross
I remember the crunch of the snow beneath my boots, and the feel of my mitten in his hand, when the time was right to share my secret: “Dad,” I said, “I’m going to be a priest.”
Although it was over 50 years ago, I still remember the look on his face. He was a big shot at General Electric Co., but he was a sensitive, loving man. He stopped and looked at me, with sad eyes and pursed lips, perhaps gathering his thoughts.
Finally, he simply said, “MaryAnn, they don’t let girls be priests.”