I miss going to church. I certainly don’t want to go; I don’t believe. But I miss the dark carved wood and the memorial windows, stories in jewelled light. The older women in hats. The organ making the air come alive with sound. Being still for a time, knowing exactly when to listen and when to speak. The lovely language of the old Anglican Book of Common Prayer and the satisfaction of honouring its cadences, the gentle, cooperative rhythm of the Lord’s Prayer, the Apostles' Creed. The profound simplicity of “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.”

Hearing everyone say that. (Adults!) The frankness and civility of it.