Chapter 7

With the advent of August, the uncharacteristically dry weather vanished, and humidity once again hung over Chicagoland like a damp beach towel. As a concession to the heat, Father Coverdale emerged from the sacristy of St Alban’s Church after the early Mass on the first Sunday of the month wearing a short sleeved clergy shirt rather than his accustomed cassock (though the shirt was black, of course; Miles had never embraced the trend toward powder blue or various shades of gray or maroon pin stripes or any of the other available variations on traditional clerical vesture). The glass which enclosed the covered walkways connecting the church with the Guild Hall was removed during the warmer months, so Miles traversed the length of the section forming the east side of the garth with a langorous gait, taking a subliminal cue from the heavy air. Observing hallowed Episcopalian custom, there was no Sunday School at St Alban’s during July and August, but Miles knew a dozen or so members of the early congregation would be sipping coffee in the cool of the Guild Hall basement room where the Adult Forum would have otherwise been held, and he was on his way to join them.

His restrained pace betokened not only the weather, but his mood. He would not have called himself depressed—the word had too many clinical overtones for him—but he was assuredly still bruised from the blows of the previous month. Unfinished business and unresolved conflict were piling up on every front. There had been no communication between the rector of St Alban’s and the Bishop of Chicago since their last awkward meeting at the diocesan office. There had been no communication between Rachel Coverdale and her father since their wrenching encounter later that same day in the Grove Lake rectory. There had been no communication—save that which was required for the transaction of sacramental business at the communion rail: “the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven”—between Audrey Newhouse and her priest/para-colleague since their tense exchange on the deck of the Lakeside Mental Health Associates office. Brian was his father’s only regular human companion. Contrary to his expectations, Miles had actually come to enjoy having his son around the house again. Without forgetting the real framework of their relationship, and neither one glossing over the painful circumstances surrounding the younger Coverdale’s return to Pound Hill Way, their relationship took on an aspect resembling that between college roommates. Serendipitously sharing the same taste in beer, they managed together to amass an impressive display of empty cans strewn about the house in the course of a few days, much of the contents of which had been consumed while watching the Cubs, ubiquitous on WGN television, prosecute a season which remained promising even in early August. On this weekend, however, Miles was temporarily alone again, as Brian was at the Wisconsin lake cabin with some college friends.

Miles arrived in the Guild Hall basement, poured himself a cup of coffee, and took a seat at the end of two oblong tables placed end to end so as to accomodate about sixteen people; some two-thirds of the seats were filled this morning. At the other end of the formation, two middle-aged men were engaged in an animated debate about state politics. The decibel level of their voices did not cross the threshold of what might be described as boorish, but came close enough to be annoying. The others did not participate in the discussion, but made no attempt to drown it out either. When Father Coverdale took his seat, it was a welcome distraction. No sooner had the coffee in his cup settled down to a dead calm, however, than Miles was aware—subconsciously at first, then overtly—of the telephone ringing in the kithen some twenty feet away. It was the sort of background noise that most ears would have filtered out—ears of those other than one who would plausibly be expected to answer a ringing telephone on church grounds on a Sunday morning. Anyone trying to call St Alban’s at that hour probably had a good reason. If it were only a potential new worshipper inquiring as to service times and directions, the outgoing message on the answering machine would satisfy that need. But what if an acolyte or usher or lay eucharistic minister scheduled for service at the later celebration was calling to give regrets for the morning? Or what if someone had taken seriously ill, or worse. Miles excused himself hastily and ran toward the kitchen, knowing that the answering machine in the office would pick up the call after the third ring. His right hand lifted the reciever from its cradle without an instant to spare.

“St Alban’s, Father Coverdale.” His zeal to not miss the call did not motivate him to extend himself in the direction of what would have been standard office courtesy on a weekday (“Good morning, thank you for calling St Alban’s Church; this is Father Coverdale. How may I help you?”). It was just as well, because the next voice he heard emanated from a recording. “You have a collect call from…” —here the recorded voice paused, and the quite human voice of his son was afforded just enough time to utter its own name— “…Brian…” The machine took over: “To accept charges, please press ‘1’.” In the instant it took for the index finger of Miles’s left hand to reach the keypad of the telephone, there was no opportunity to cognitively process why Brian would be making a collect call to his father under such unlikely cirsumstances, but his emotions realized immediately that Brian always carried a cell phone with him (in fact, he was veritably compulsive about it) and that the lake cabin had a functioning phone line, so something was, therefore, quite wrong, and a response of anxiety was entirely appropriate. The acid reservoirs in his stomach immediately complied.

“Brian?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

“What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m in the Delles, actually.” Wisconsin Delles, in its natural state a particularly scenic stretch of the Wisconsin River, had developed over the years into a highly commercialized tourist and recreation area, and would have been heavily populated by the likes of Brian and his peers on a hot August weekend.

Miles tried to conceal his alarm, but to say that he was merely “curious” would have understated his concern. “The Delles? Bit of a change in plans, huh?”

Brian laughed heartily. “Well, you could certainly say that! Actually, Dad…I’m going to try and say this calmly…I don’t want you to worry…but, actually, Dad, I’m in jail.”

Father and son each waited for the other to speak further, and the ensuing five seconds or so of silence seemed more like a minute to them both. Miles blinked first. “Jail?!” It was an exclamation in voice tone, but not in volume, as he was suddenly aware that the politcal discussion in the next room had ebbed, and it felt as though everyone there was listening in on his end of the exchange.

“Yeah, these cops…well, I have to watch what I say, because they’re right here hovering over me. This is my ‘one phone call,’ just like on TV. Anyway, there’s a big screwup. I haven’t done anything, but they think I’ve been dealing.”

“Dealing?” Miles replied, with more than an edge of irritation in his voice. “Dealing what?”

“Dealing nothing!” Now it was Brian’s turn to be irritated. “They think I was dealing coke, but they’re mixed up. Look, Dad, I can explain everything, but I need you to come up here and bail me out. Can you do that?”

Both men knew, of course, that Miles would certainly, in the end, comply. They knew how the dance would conclude, but they were unsure of the steps that would lead them to that point. As Miles tried to absorb the shock of Brian’s circumstances, he was aware that any hesitation on his part would be construed by his son as lack of faith, as distrust. He did not want to communicate that impression (not that there wasn’t a significant element of truth in it). But to respond simply, “Sure, I’ll be right over” (it was, in fact, more than a two hour drive) seemed oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Being held in a county jail a hundred miles away is not exactly on a par with a flat tire or a flooded engine just on the other side of town. And besides, it was Sunday morning. In a quarter century of ordained ministry, Miles had never missed a Sunday service at which he was scheduled to officiate by reason of illness or other personal extenuating circumstances. Miles intuitively realized the face-saving value of that fact. “Brian, sure, of course I’ll come up.” He hoped the tone of his voice conveyed calm confidence, along with a due appreciation of the seriousness of the situation. “But I hope they’re treating you well, because you’re going to have to just cool your jets for a few hours. You know about my regular Sunday morning gig, of course.”

“Hey, they’re not, like, torturing me or anything. But I haven’t had any sleep. It was after midnight when they busted me, and I’ve spent most of the last few hours either waiting around in handcuffs or watching the ‘good cop/bad cop’ dance. And I have to tell you, this is not a fun place. There are some mighty strange characters here. Can’t Father Hook step up to the plate for you?”

“He did plenty of pinch-hitting when your mother was sick.” Miles wanted to be resolute without sounding unkind. “No, I’ve got to finish the morning routine. Then I’ll head right on up. You should see me by three o’clock or so.”

Brian sighed with frustration, but had sufficient presence of mind to realize that his father was the best friend he had at the moment, and to risk further alienating him would have been grossly unwise. “OK. I’ll bake you a cake and have it ready.”

Miles was not in a playful spirit. “So where are you, exactly? How do I find you?” Brian, with the assistance of a jail official who was already poised to bring the conversation to a halt, supplied his father with the necessary information. Miles then politely excused himself from his coffee-sipping parishioners and repaired to the privacy of his office, where he placed a phone call to Clarence Crumb, a former member of the St Alban’s vestry who still served as informal legal counsel to the parish. He was seventy-seven years old, but only semi-retired as a partner in a prominent Loop law firm which did not do criminal work, but knew who did. Mr Crumb phoned Vince Piaseki, a suburban criminal attorney, who then phoned a bail bondsman of his acquaintance in Madison, who, in turn, phoned one of his colleagues in Wisconsin Delles, who saw to all the relevant technicalities of getting Brian Coverdale released into his father’s custody as expeditiously as possible—not shoddy work for a Sunday morning.

Miles arrived at the Wisconsin Delles Police Department holding facility at the stroke of three, exactly as he had predicted. His high-powered legal connections had paid off, and the process leading to Brian actually walking out of the building and entering the passenger side of the Grand Marquis was suprisingly free of bureaucratic complication. The same could not be said, unfortunately, for the quality of the father-son relationship. Miles played host within his own psyche to a debate between priest and parent, between “Father”—the savvy pastor who was experienced at seeing through people’s dissembling obfuscations, and “Dad”—the loving sire of his own flesh and blood, who wanted to believe the best about the son he had raised to adulthood. In order to protect “Dad” on this unscheduled Sunday afternoon drive in the country, “Father” decided to remain silent. Barely a half dozen words were exchanged between Miles and Brian during the entire return trip to Grove Lake. As for Brian’s Porsche, it remained in Wisconsin. The police considered it evidence.

Miles slept poorly that night, and awakened early the next morning. It was Monday, his day off. He peeked in on Brian, who was sound asleep, and by any informed reckoning, was likely to remain so well into the daylight hours. Belle demanded, and received, her morning ambulation, after which Miles retrieved the Chicago Tribune from the front step and repaired to the recliner in the family room. He was not in the mood to face the formalities of his morning prayers; God would just have to understand (He always had before in similar circumstances, Miles reasoned). Purely by habit, a habit acquired more than three decades earlier during his student days, Miles opened the sports section first. The big news was the arrival of the Atlanta Braves at Wrigley Field for a three game series. The Cubs held a tenuous two game lead over the St Louis Cardinals in the National League Central Division, and the Braves were similarly positioned with respect to the New York Mets in the Eastern Division. Though the season was a long way from over, many speculated that this August encounter in Chicago might be a preview of the first round of post-season playoffs. While Atlantans were well-accustomed to watching their home team play baseball in October, Chicagoans found the prospect a distinct novelty. Game time on this Monday was the traditional 1:20 PM. It didn’t take very much planning, and Miles didn’t put a lot of thought into it. He grabbed a hat and some sunglasses and his cell phone, backed his Mercury out of the garage, and headed for Clark and Addison, the inimitable “friendly confines of beautiful Wrigley Field.”

Miles had played the three “major” sports in high school—football, basketball, and baseball, and earned a varsity letter in all three. Autumn and winter found him usually on the bench, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed the esprit de corps and was even something of a leader—captain of the football team his senior year, as a matter of fact—a remarkable feat for a benchwarmer. In the spring, however, Miles rose to the top like cream. Baseball had always been one of his passions; the excitement of the back to back World Series triumphs of the Milwaukee Braves in 1957 and 1958 had been indelibly etched on the memory of his heart (and their departure for Atlanta just before his own senior season permanently alienated him from that franchise). He was advanced to the varsity baseball team toward the end of his freshman season, and held on securely to the starting first baseman’s job for the remainder of his high school career. He was a switch hitter, not for power, but for average, particularly on-base average; he was equally adept at coaxing a walk out of a pitcher as getting a hit. On the bases, Miles did not have exceptional speed, but his sense of timing was acute. In the field, he made up for a throwing arm that might even have been described as weak with a glove that seemed like there was glue in its pocket, and a consistent ability to compensate for the throwing errors of the shortstop and third baseman.

It was his baseball coach, Danny Schultz, who steered Miles toward Wheaton College. Schultz was a recent graduate, had played baseball there, and maintained a close friendship with the Wheaton coach, Don Sederstrom. Even as a sophomore, flush with the honor of having made the varsity so quickly, Miles entertained aspirations toward a professional career, and had the initiative to investigate collegiate baseball hothouses like Arizona State and Louisiana State. But his capacity for realistic, objective good judgment matched his initiative, and he realized it was more of a longshot than he wanted to commit himself to. So Danny Schultz began to casually talk to Miles about Wheaton, selling it as a place where he could be a big fish in a little pond, not be too far from home, and get a good liberal arts education in the meantime. It was that afterthought, the bonus of a good education, that ultimately had the most impact on his life, but althought baseball receded from the prominent position it enjoyed during his high school days, he retained his love for the game.

Miles realized that, without a ticket in hand, the whole enterprise was a little iffy, but gambled that arriving more than two hours before the first pitch, and aspiring only to the bleachers, his chances of admission were enhanced. His intuition was on the mark, and he soon found himself in the left field bleachers, at the end of the eighth row, next to the section of left-center field seats that had been permanently blocked off in the 1950s and covered in green carpet, for the sake of batters being able to more clearly see the ball as it flew from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. The leisurely pre-game rituals of major league baseball unfolded with liturgical precision: stretching exercises, slow games of catch, jogging along the outfield warning track, and, ever the highlight for early bird fans, batting practice. In the distance, between home plate and the third base dugout, somebody in a Cubs uniform was being interviewed in front of a WGN television camera. It was too early for the pre-game show, Miles thought to himself; perhaps the reporter was acquiring sound bites for the sports segment of the evening news. As Wrigley Field’s inimitable “bleacher bums” inexorably took possesion of their turf, the alternating chants of “Left field sucks,” answered without rancor, and in perfect proportion to the offense—“Right field sucks”—gained momentum in the first of its many cycles. It was as predictable, and as impersonal—no one was ever formally designated to commence or conclude the litany—as a summer afternoon thunderstorm in the tropics.

Without breaking his conscious attention to the sheer sensory immediacy of the experience, Miles was subliminally aware of another’s presence—first approaching, then alighting. An older gentleman—Miles would have guessed him to be in his early seventies, but he could have been older—was in the process of occupying the seat to his right. Miles had no impulse to protest, but he was immediately annoyed; there were still several other vacant spots in that area of the bleachers, and it seemed a breach of an unspoken rule of ettiquette for a party-of-one to take a seat directly adjacent to another loner when there were plenty of available alternatives. To his chagrin, it was as if the interloper read Miles’s thoughts. “I hope you don’t mind,” he immediately proferred as soon as Miles made eye contact with him, “but it looked like you were alone, and I am too, and … well, when some of these young folks arrive, they like to sit together, and I end up gettin’ run off to all around these left field bleachers anyway …” The inflection of his voice did not descend in the manner of a declarative statement, but remained at an inconclusive mid-pitch, a subtle request for reassurance.

Miles did not disappoint, even though the level of entusiasm he communicated exceeded that which he actually felt. “No, not at all, not a problem.” He patted the seat in question with his right hand, as if to say, “Sit here,” then turned his gaze back to the activity on the field. Already a marginal introvert by nature, Miles Coverdale was in a season of introspection that was uncharacteristic even for him. He was able to accomodate his neighbor’s request for sanctuary from the less than perfectly mannered “young people” of the Wrigley Field bleachers. Yet, it would be just fine with him if conversation were not on the agenda.

The authoritative crack of a bat—more particularly, the “sweet spot” of a bat—making solid contact with a baseball arrested the attention of everyone in the ball park and brought those in the left field bleachers instinctively to their feet. The Cubs’ rookie backup catcher, a Venezuelan built like an oak tree, was taking his practice swings and had just, as they say, “connected.” The ball soared in a high arc that seemed for a moment destined for earth orbit. It did indeed eventually reach an apogee and begin to descend, but it was clear that no ticket-holding fan would acquire it as a souvenier, as it cleared not only the bleachers but, according to the report of those in the top row, Waveland Avenue itself, landing on the sidewalk just inches from an apartment building entrance. Miles’s new companion whistled. “My, oh my, why can’t he do that when they’re actually keeping score?”

Miles answered back through a grin as they turned to face forward again and sit back down, “Oh, he will—about the time they start using batting practice pitchers in real games!”

“You have a point, sir, you have a point. That boy can swing a bat, but big league pitchers are eatin’ his lunch.”

“Well, fortunately, the way Davis is hitting”—Miles referred to the Cubs’ regular starting catcher—“they don’t have to use him much.”

“My name’s Ron, by the way. I guess I’m sort of a regular here—the day games, at least, and when it’s not too cold. My old bones don’t like cold weather much.”

Miles extended his hand. “I’m Miles. I’m one of those suburbanites who occasionally get the urge to watch real baseball—you know, without the constant yak from announcers and their instant replays and instant statistics and all that crap.” Just then, the right field/left field war heated up again for about a minute, and all conversation was quashed. Miles eyed Ron, this time with a more amicable spirit—the beginnings of a bond had been formed in the brief lines they had exchanged. Ron was of African descent, stocky in build, but not obese, about as tall as Miles, and dressed neatly, if not fashionably, in a short-sleeve white dress shirt, nondescript dark trowsers, navy blue suspenders, black plastic-framed sunglasses, and an old straw hat with a more than ample brim.

After the roar died down, Ron picked up the dialogue right where Miles had left it, but without taking his eye of the field. “Miles, I’m honored to meet you. Welcome to the left field bleachers.”

Miles felt as though the older man were ushering him as a guest into his own home. “The honor is all mine, Ron, believe me. I have an envious high regard for anyone who can call himself a ‘regular’ here.”

Ron laughed. “Oh, please don’t flatter me! What does it say about me that I haven’t got anything better to do than come here and watch grown men play? It’s just that I love it so. I love the way it looks, and the way it smells, and the way it feels. I even love these bleacher bums,” emphasizing his point with a 180 degree wave of his right arm. “Hell, I am one of them, I reckon,” he continued, chortling.

Miles was aware both that he was grinning broadly, and that he possessed neither the desire nor the ability to quit. Ron, sensing that Miles’s facial contortion was itself a response, a bone fide contribution to the continuing dialogue, simply went on. “And the best part—well, not the actual best part, I guess; if the Cubs win, that’s the best part, but you and I both know, most years, on most days, you can’t count too much on that happening—” (another infectious laugh punctuated his remarks) “… one of the best parts of the game is not the game itself, but what leads up to it, all of this.” He waved his arm again, this time in a wider arc. “And that’s the part y’all don’t even see on WGN. Now don’t get me wrong—God bless WGN, I mean, where would Cubs fans be without them? But, you know what I mean? Eighty-one times a year, people come to this place—and more or less fill it up, these days, though I can surely remember a time when that wasn’t so, when there would be only three or four thousand for a weekday afternoon game, but nowadays we about pack the place—and every day is a new day. No matter how bad things went yesterday, today is a new day, a fresh start. Anything can happen. The players believe it, the grounds crew believes it, the coke and beer and hot dog vendors believe it, and the fans believe it. That’s why they’re having batting practice, and that’s why we’re watching them take batting practice. You know what they say about today being the first day of the rest of your life? Most of the time, that sounds like a load of crap, don’ it? But for some reason—I can’t figure it—for some reason, not here. Here it makes perfect sense. The Cubs can win, and right now, at this time, nobody has any doubt that they will. Am I right, Miles? Don’t you think the Cubs are going to win today?”

Miles had been holding his breath, he subliminally realized, as he was holding his grin, and now he laughed as he exhaled. “Absolutely! I do believe it! The Cubs are going to win today!” The two men exchanged high-fives.

The game turned out to be a textbook pitcher’s duel, a sort of contest Miles much preferred to the more popular home run slugfests. Through five innings, each team had been able to put only one man on base, both as a result of ground balls that were not particularly sharply hit, but had “eyes” and eluded the grasp of lunging infielders. Neither hit turned into a run. In the top of the sixth, the Braves put themselves on the scoreboard with a walk, a perfectly-executed hit-and run which moved the lead runner to third base, and a sacrifice fly. In the bottom of the inning, the Cubs answered more efficiently when the Atlanta pitcher hung a curve ball, and the Cubs’ first baseman, swinging from the left side, slammed it over the right field wall with such ferocity that it seemed as though the ball was still gaining altitude when it struck the bleachers. In the top of the ninth, the Cubs starter finally showed signs of fatigue, and walked the first two batters. This brought in the Chicago bullpen ace, who threw only ten pitches, the final nine of which were consecutive strikes, all clocking in three digits, thus retiring the side. Unfortunately, from the point of view of most everyone in the ballpark that afternoon, pitch number one yielded a double in the right field gap, scoring the lead runner. Thus the Braves took a one run lead into the bottom of the ninth.

Miles and Ron, whose conversation had ebbed considerably after the game got under way, turned to each other and smiled ruefully. As longtime fans of the Cubs, they were all too accustomed to their heroes’ uncanny knack for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And as fate would have it, the bottom of the Cubs’ batting order was due up. The lanky Chicago shortstop, who had an arm like a cannon, but whose batting average was currently hovering only a few digits above his weight, took two quick balls, low and away. He then proceeded to foul off the next seven consecutive pitches, after which he successfully checked his swing at two more pitches which appeared to him just below the knee and just on the other side of home plate. The umpire agreed, despite the efforts of the Atlanta catcher to hold his glove in such a way as to foster the appearance that he caught the ball over the plate. The Cubs had a man on base with nobody out.

Ron straightened his spine and sat at attention. “Miles, my friend, did I really say all the stuff before the game is the best part of coming here? Well, I lied! This is the best part, the part when you can really feel like ‘it ain’t over till it’s over.’ The clock may say we been at this for goin’ on to three hours now, but you and I both know, this game could still be young, could still be very young.” Miles nodded in agreement, keeping his attention fixed on the pitcher’s mound, where the Braves’ pitcher stared down the Cubs’ number eight hitter, the veteran third baseman they had acquired as a free agent during the off season. Having learned his lesson with the previous batter about how the plate umpire viewed the strike zone, he came high and inside for two quick called strikes. Hopes were high, particularly in the left field bleachers, when the next pitch was off-speed and out over the plate, and the experienced slugger got good wood on it. Miles and Ron stood in unison with everyone around them, and for a couple of long moments, Miles thought the ball was going to land right on top of him. But he erred. The Atlanta left fielder had his back on Wrigley Field’s famous ivy, but it was a clean catch. Next up was a pinch hitter in the pitcher’s spot—Carlos Reynoso, the backup catcher who had provided batting practice fireworks.

Miles turned to Ron. “Well, what do you think? Can he do it again?”

“Stranger things have happened. This surely is his big chance, though, ain’t it?”

The first pitch was a called strike at the knees; no one could fault the Braves’ pitcher for lack of aggressiveness or courage. Being ahead in the count now afforded him a certain luxury in the way he pursued his task. He missed with his next delivery—a curve ball in the dirt, but followed up quickly with a fastball, catching the inexperienced hitter with his guard down as he swung lamely and, it seemed, a full half-second too late. The count was one ball and two strikes. Ron could not contain himself. “Now ain’t this the very thing? In sixty second we could be walking out of here, with the Cubs having won, or the Braves having won, or we could be here another two hours watching extra innings. But we just don’t know. We’ve got to wait and see how it plays out. Ain’t baseball great?” Miles only nodded his concurrence, but in his own mind he experienced a veritable epiphany, a sudden flash of intuitive insight. He now had a metaphor for the mystery of kairos, the ancient Greek notion of time which has nothing to do with the movement of a clock, or sand through an hourglass, or shadows across a sundial, but which exists entirely unto itself, the “time” in which God dwells. God lives in “baseball time,” not clock time. In that moment before the one-and-two pitch to Carlos Reynoso, Miles glimpsed the morass into which his life had sunk from an eternal perspective, and for the first time in nearly a year, he felt hope. It would be fleeting, he knew. No more than Peter, James, and John could sustain the glory of the Transfiguration by building monuments to mark the event could Miles bask too long in the glow of this sidelong glance at hope. But it was real, and it could not be taken from him, and he knew it was a well from which he would yet drink again. And most amazingly, the vehicle of his epiphany had been a seventy-something (eighty-something?) year old about whom he knew virtually nothing (Where did he live? Did he have a family? What had been his occupation? Was he a man of faith? A Christian?), and whom he, in all probability, would never see again in his life.

Carlos Reynoso examined a change-up floating toward home plate seemingly at the leisurely pace of a badminton birdie. It looked for all the world to him like the friendly lobs of a batting practice pitcher. He did what came naturally, and parked it on Waveland Avenue. Cubs win.

Miles waited out the afternoon rush hour by stopping for barbecued ribs at one of his and Sharon’s favorite old haunts from their St George’s days, walking distance from Wrigley Field, just down Clark Street. He felt a stab of angst as he passed within a couple of blocks of the luxury condo which, until recently, had been home to Brian, but he did not allow himself to dwell in negativity. Upon arriving home, just before seven, he noticed Sharon’s car was gone—Brian must be out somewhere. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, picked up the day’s mail from the table in the entry hall (grateful that Brian was at least good for the simple errand of retrieving mail from the box just outside the front door), and sat in his favorite chair in the den to sort through it. At the top of the stack was a hand-addressed envelope. It was the only item that looked like it was neither a bill nor an ad, so he opened it first. It was from Tricia Sakamoto—a newer parishioner, a housewife in her thirties with three small children.

Dear Fr Coverdale,

I’m not much of a writer, so I have delayed saying this to you longer than I should have. Plus, you have been through so much in the last few months that I have not wanted to intrude. But I want you to know what a great priest I think you are. The services at St Alban’s are so beautiful that I don’t even know how to express it. And your sermons are always so meaningful—it feels like you are speaking them directly to me! You have been such a help to me and to my family. We are so blessed for having found St Alban’s. Thank-you very much, Father, and please excuse my poor writing!

Blessings, Tricia

Miles wept. Your writing is just fine, Tricia, your writing is just fine. And isn’t timing everything?