In the autumn of 2019, on a rain-slicked back road outside the town of Mercy, Pennsylvania, I found a tiny stone church with a single stained-glass window still glowing at three in the morning. The church had been locked for forty years. But the window was warm to the touch, and the face in the glass — Saint Clare holding a monstrance — seemed to be looking at me differently every time I circled back to the road. I went inside through a cellar door that wasn't locked. I met a woman who had been kneeling there since 1982. She told me the fire had never gone out, only changed temperature. She asked me to hold the monstrance for a moment. I did. And I have not been cold since, not even in the bone-chilling hours before dawn. This is what it felt like to hold something that should have burned me alive.

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