“My Small Life.”

Several years ago we were in Paris somewhere where near the department stores, holding hands and angling off into neighborhoods unknown when we came upon a small square that dated back to before the Napoleons. The surrounding streets flowed decisively toward the square, recognizing that the town square was a destination and an attraction, before it was subsumed by Paris sprawl. An ancient church was posted among the cobblestones like a sentinel and since we like to go inside churches, we walked up the threshold.

A small saint inside a small church in Paris teaches the true meaning of “I am humbled.”

The church interior was quiet and solemn in the way that churches can be. Sunlight tried to slash through the windows but even the bright blue Spring morning outside could not beat through the blackened stained glass. The side altars, hollows and crypts remained sinister, creepy. The air smelled of incense aged by generations of farting priests, kneeling altar boys and sweating church. There was dust. I stood in front of a dark column whose architectural lines vaulted into the arched dome above. The side of the column was decorated with an adoring smiling cherub and a plaque trimmed in gold. The church was named for a St Teresa and on the plaque was a message written in St Teresa’s own words. Her message was in French, but pinned next to the plaque was a piece of paper with a typed English translation. The paper was yellowed and curled and protected by the kind of modern plastic you find in a 3-ringed…