One night, saying my prayers before bed, I found myself singing a song to Mary, Jesus’ mother. I was young—no more than 7 or 8. And I did not whisper a word of what had happened to anyone at the time, because it frightened me so. I did not know why it had come up in me, but I did know without a doubt that Pentecostals did not sing to Mary. Not even abou…
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