The Slow, Undignified Death of a Rural Church
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5mkVw_HawCSeT3QRXu82snq95Sh5nZkEQaEN_6JHZpfh4hoSTADg1hlPsrqNbJDu4l4_mfzm7ijEveE78BcfeD-NM_EZVodV1AdI_XO7lFRDyBNk1PiGvI9vPCmN8rp0q8c7oZhzcuxb34MoTx6sU3VytjsDTGD3kwy3Lvsn57kiGdGLKYzm7MpgSmM/w640-h360/Untitled-design-1200x675.png)
I thought Covid would have killed it. It should have, as an act of mercy. Better to die living than live dying, or however hippies put it. I do not speak of Anthony Fauci’s career but of a rural Saskatchewan parish a mere thirty minutes from my home. A Catholic parish that remains open to this day, though how or why I cannot say. I recently attended Sunday Mass there with my wife and five children. We had to stop in before traveling onward to visit relatives. This small church is the sister parish of our usual hometown parish and, therefore, is serviced by the same young priest. It seemed low risk. The air had a crisp autumn chill as we pulled into the low-key town with an official population of about 500 . We bumped along the pothole minefield known as Main Street—thanks local politicians—past the 50 Shades of Green Cannabis shop—thanks Trudeau—towards the tired, rundown-looking church—thanks Vatican II . The parking area, a patch of yellowing grass that serves as a parking lo