I was living with ghosts. I’d seen therapists, exorcists and shamans, healers and drug dealers, but the thoughts persisted. By then, I was desperate. Raised a Catholic, long since lapsed, I drove through the Berkshires up Eden Hill to The National Shrine of The Divine Mercy, searching for penitence. I waited patiently for Father to take my confession. I held nothing back. He sent me inside to recite a special prayer—a chaplet. “After you’re done, linger a little longer than usual,” he suggested. Within the Shrine, the energy is profound. Holy candles burn amongst hand-carved wooden arches, saintly sculptures and stained…
