I remember my first Easter Mass clearly. It was in the little church where my husband’s family used to go to the early Mass, in a teeny tiny town. It was a wood-framed building with polished wood floors, squeaky pews, and magnificent stained glass windows.
Though the name of the church was Sacred Heart, through some sort of mix-up, there was a beautiful window up in the highest part of the roof that was the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
All these hearts were pretty strange to me when I was exploring the Catholic Church. The images are a little gruesome and weird, though there’s something compelling too, something that draws me to them.