I HEAR THE WORD, of course. I go to Mass some Sundays, listen to Al Green’s Greatest Gospel Hits, and have lived in or near the Bible Belt for the better part of the past decade. Even still, the word God has never quite fitted itself to my ears. And when I’m called upon to say it, I get shifty-eyed and spastic. I smile hard and mutter other words— spirit or goodness—anything but the word God, which sits like a fistful of rubber bands in my mouth.

, people say, and unless I’ve sneezed, I’m at a loss. I visited my friend Mary this summer. A ninety-six-year-old church lady adorned with more medals of the saints than I can count, Mary’s been an ardent and unlikely guide as I’ve made my way back to Catholicism. She’d just moved into a nursing home, and she showed me around— the cafeteria, the sunroom with plant stands and floral padded wicker chairs, the chapel with statues of Mary and Jesus flanking the altar. “Go up and say hello,” she said. The chapel was small, with nowhere to