MINISTER OF CREATIVITY, copywrite 2015 ————

The young boy sat on the old wooden bridge over a little stream between two large cottonwood trees dropping twigs into the water and pondering his life. The CHIMAYO Church towers watched over him, he felt secure and warm. He was little compared to the world, but he had a family. He was told people cared and heard about God and healing as people walked around him in and out of the Church. Many years later he visited the Church and saw a young boy, but the trees had been cut down, the walkway over the stream was concrete and asphalt covered what had been natural bushes and earth. He heard people talk about money and tourist trinkets, where to buy food and skepticism about the old stories of healing and caring. Now, he knew his family hadn’t cared about him, didn’t talk to him and only saw the Church as a building to photograph. Parking on the asphalt was designated for the wealthy and with status, as the parking was back home at the Churches. A cool wind blew and crosses and statues of Christ were minimized or hidden.


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