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I traveled here, arriving just yesterday on an early flight, to answer a question that I’ve had for years: Why would a woman make the very specific choice to marry God?

I’m imagining a certain kind of woman—let’s say a woman like myself, in her mid-thirties and smart and not hard-up and with a few options in life.

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Inside, none of the furniture looks as if it was personally picked, or has any sentimental value, but was chosen instead for cost and efficiency—the way a dorm or rec center or any consensus-decorated place feels.

This is some anonymous suburban homeof my circumstances, is the persistent, haunted sound of the mourning doves in the trees outside. on the dot, still in sweatpants and socks, I pad quietly down the tan carpeted stairs and into the living room where we gather for prayers, a handful of women in our sleepwear.

Maybe it’s thanks to my mother’s rigid Catholic upbringing, as a Cuban woman of Spanish descent packed off to a convent school in New England.

Maybe it’s the Forties and Fifties films I consumed constantly as a child.

A huge remote control lies on the coffee table next to a crucifix and a bowl of plastic Easter eggs.