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Because our former small-town parish was not a wealthy one, our pastor was dependent on parishioners for upkeep and maintenance of the church.

Once he asked my husband, Sam, to rewire the confessionals. The only way to reach the wiring was to enter the attic above the altar and crawl over the ceiling by balancing on the rafters.

Concerned for my husband's safety, I waited in a pew.

Unbeknownst to me, some parishioners were congregating in the vestibule. They paid little attention to me, probably assuming I was praying.

Worried about my husband, I looked up toward the ceiling and yelled, "Sam, Sam, are you up there? Did you make it okay?"

There was quite an outburst from the vestibule when Sam's hearty voice echoed down, "Yes, I made it up here just fine!"

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