I dedicate this essay to the memory of my son, Kyle Brennan (1986-2007), but it was also written to honor all the blessed children-our Angels-who have died too young.
An early December wind sweeps up the narrow cobblestone street like a spirited entity. In search of celestial heights, it spirals upward enveloping the facade of the old church. St. Michael’s Cathedral—perched on the town’s highest hill—is a work of architectural brilliance. Built-in the twelfth-century, the Romanesque-style structure makes a magnificent sentry tower. Saints carved from stone gaze solemnly from their niches in quiet contemplation of the ever-changing world around them. The soft morning light adds a deceptive warmth to the beautiful vista that lies below—the medieval town of Bamberg, Germany.
Standing in front of St. Michael’s, my seventeen-year-old son, Kyle Brennan, is mesmerized by the massive house of worship. Locked in eternal conflict atop the cathedral’s central peak is Kyle’s…
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