His name is Andrew. He’s a former Roman monk. He has a daughter named Alissa. We’ve never even met, but when we do it’s going to get crazy.
He’s in Maine. His parents are there as well as his daughter. I’m in Indiana, 1300 miles away. It will take me three days just to drive there.
But I’m going. You can’t stop me. He’s pretty neat.
He hopes to be ordained a vocational deacon. He has the backing of his rector and his parish.
Tell me, should Joshua be married to a deacon? Damnrightheshould.
He’s a member of my Daily Office congregation. That’s like meeting a guy in church, exactly where we ought to meet each other.
Not in a Gay bar, not on a street corner, in church. I kind of like this guy; he’s very sweet.
I’m 60. He’s 55 or so. He needs some loving. I’ve got some on hand.
I need some loving too; he’s got a mountain of it right outside his house.
He lives in a small town on the coast, designated the prettiest place in America by Forbes.com.
They have lobsters and crabs and all kinds of fishes of the sea. The harbor’s right there; he looks down on it from his special ledge almost every night.
Did I mention the lobsters and crabs? If not, here we go again: lobsters and crabs!
He lives in a fishing village, and although it snows there every single day without any letup whatsoever from August to June (and do I need to say this, I do not care for cold), that’s where this boy lives. We’re here, it’s Maine, get used to it.
Very frightening. But kind of nice.
He’s very intense; so am I. We’re hoping we don’t beat each other senseless.
We’re hoping to sit on his ledge over the ocean, holding hands.
I could use your prayers over this; it sounds absurd, but it might work, you never know.
A boyfriend, at my age. What is he thinking of?
Uh, me. And why should he not?++
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