He dressed, and sped outdoors. He crossed Broome Street to Orange Square. The steeple leaned backward, while the church advanced like a headless creature in a long, shapeless coat. The spire seemed to hold up the sky.

Port Jervis, basking in the foothills, was the city of God. The Dutch Reformed Church, with two steeples and its own school was on Main Street; the Episcopal Church was one block down Sussex Street; the Catholic Saint Mary's Church, with an even taller steeple and a cross on top, stood on Ball Street. The Catholics had the largest cemetery, near the Neversink River where Main Street ran south; Stevie whistled when he passed these alien grounds.

God was everywhere, in the belfry, in the steeple, in the clouds, in the trees, and in the mountains hulking on the horizon. Somewhere, beyond, where shadows lurked, must be the yawning pit of which Papa preached and the dreadful Lake of Fire.

So, walking in awe, he became familiar with God, who resided chiefly in Drew Centennial Church with its high steeple and clock. There was no church like Drew Church, no preacher like Papa, who was intimate with Him, and could consign sinners to hellfire. To know God he must follow in Papa's footsteps. He was fortunate, and proud.

The veterans, idling on their benches in the Square, beneath the soldiers' monument, got to their feet when Papa approached: ``Morning, Reverend!'' His being and His will -- Stevie could not divide God from his Papa -- illumined every parish face, turned the choir into a band of angels, and the pulpit into the tollgate to Heaven.