Every morning she would wake at seven; she’d wash, dress, and drink a cup of tea; and then she would put on her hat and coat and walk a mile down the road to her local church in time for the eight o’clock service. Over the years she had noticed the church becoming emptier and emptier. The young people had all but disappeared and all that was left were a handful of old men and women, most of whom were waiting patiently for the Lord to call them home.Breda was early, so she knelt and put her hands together and looked up at the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross. She said an Our Father and then some Hail Marys and a Glory Be after that. The church was empty. Her knees were hurting her and she felt tired and cold. She leaned on the pew and pulled herself into a sitting position, then joined her hands again and waited for the priest and the few last souls seeking solace or saving to join her.“Dear God,” she said, “I look at Your son on the cross, I see the nails in His hands and feet, the thorns on His head, the blood in His eyes, the wound in His side, and I’d trade places with Him in an instant if You would just give me my Alexandra back.
