My Sunday came and went without Carolyn. Her mother, Carolyn said, pressured her into staying one more day so she could spend time with the grandchildren. All four of them skipped church for an excursion on the new boat.

Early Monday afternoon she arrived, the kids in tow. I went out to help with luggage and met the mailman coming up the walk. He handed me the usual collection of mail along with two certified pieces. One was from my father. The other came from the District Superintendent. I tucked them under my arm and gave Carolyn a long hug.

The little girl, quiet as usual in her world of loud mouths, clung to her mother’s hip, looking unsure. I rested my hand on her head, wondering what behind my back slurs grandma had been speaking in front of the children. Scott stood a few feet back, the brave trooper. He smiled and asked if Sagan was home. I told him about Sagan’s new job. He’d be home soon I guaranteed. Both boys were excited to be together again.

We were in what southerners call the dog days of summer and this one was brutally hot. We quickly got the children situated in their rooms and asked them to stay inside until it cooled off a little. I had rented a few DVDs for the occasion and they parked themselves in front of the television to watch. The children hadn’t been away that long and with them home, stretched out watching a film, I could have been convinced nothing had changed. But then there was the mail.

The green, certified stickers on the two large envelopes couldn’t be missed. They screamed out at me: “important stuff!” Maybe even life altering stuff. I should have felt excited or anxious. But I didn’t. When you’re speeding down the highway you expect to see sign posts coming at you. I knew Charley’s mailing would show me a sign post I’d been expecting -- more specifically, an arrow to an exit ramp. My father’s? My guess was something to do with John-John.

Carolyn sat with me at the kitchen table. I had made a pitcher of iced tea and she poured a tall glass for each of us. We were more or less back where we left off several weeks earlier: Together, sharing iced tea and wondering where we go from here. But appearances are only appearances. Nothing was the same. I had crossed over. The change is not easily explained. I still breathed the same wet Florida air, still ran the same path along the river. But I no longer lived in the world we’d known just weeks ago. It’s not something you can explain, even to yourself. You just accept the facts and these were the facts: I had been given new birth into a new world -- to steal words from Jesus, a new kingdom, and now in the old world I traveled on a visitor’s visa -- and then only to lead others over to the exquisitely lonely realm for which I’d been chosen. Was it dangerous to invite others to join me? Dangerous for them? Might they become lost between two worlds? I couldn’t say they wouldn’t. That’s why I stopped short of asking Carolyn to join me. She had to choose, and now she had. She wanted to come with me, her and all her house, hopefully to serve God and not my arrogance. We would still walk the same earth as everyone but no longer as regular folk, people of the people, members of the tribe. Whether a new tribe would form around us or we’d die wandering in the wilderness was unknown for now. All we could know for certain was that the moment to turn back had come and gone.

Carolyn eyed the big brown envelope from the church’s district office as she sipped her tea. I held it in my hands, nervously flipping a corner with my thumb as I chatted idly with her about Sunday’s boat ride. Calm seas? Yes. Fishing? Yes. Anything big? No. Captain and mate to run the boat? Of course. Finally she’d heard enough.

“Are you ever going to open that envelope?”

“I suppose I should,” I said.

“Are you afraid it’s bad news?”

I knew it wasn’t good news in the conventional sense, confident it didn‘t hold severance pay. Bad news was a matter of perspective, or eventual outcome. “I’d call it no news,” I said. “The ‘Dietrich’ this envelope is addressed to no longer exists.”

“Well, open it anyway and make it official,” she said.

And so I did. There it was. Colder than I had expected. No regrets expressed. Just words. Officially and permanently relieved of duty by order of the Bishop with all the appropriate bureaucratic crossing and dotting in place. An interim replacement named; a permanent replacement to arrive in two weeks. I must be out before that. Also included, pages from the Book of Discipline detailing my options on how to appeal, a set of forms for that purpose, and so forth. I imagined Charley’s secretary addressing the envelope, her hands sliding in these words of dissolution -- the letter, copied pages and forms, not knowing it was all a complete waste of effort. Certainly Charley knew. Wouldn’t I have called, begged, done whatever needed doing, if I had any idea I wanted back in their fold?

“I guess your mother must have known about all this,” I said, “being the lay leader and all. How’s she feeling about it?”

“Not good. You know her. She steels herself and does what she thinks is necessary. She’s mostly afraid for me and the kids. She knew this eviction was coming and she wanted us to continue staying with her.”

“But you steeled yourself and came back to me anyway?”

“I love you Dietrich.”

“And I thank you for it Carolyn. I‘ll try not to let you down”

We were sitting next to each other at the kitchen table, she with her legs crossed and the skirt of her summer dress up over her knee. She reached out with her toe and touched by bare calf, smiling at me with a teasing “come and get it boy” look in her eyes.

I stood and kissed her, finding the inside of her mouth with my tongue. “If the kids weren’t in the next room I’d take you right here on this table.”

“Why, you really are a new man,” she laughed.

“Maybe I’m just letting it out finally.”

“I don’t remember you being so hot-blooded when you were Pastor Waymire.”

I kissed her again. “Maybe I thought I had to keep a lid on.”

She kissed me. “And now you’re boiling over?”

“You got it baby.”

“You got it baby? Who taught you to talk like that? Your friend John-John?”

I sat back down. The kids were in the other room and I was getting too hot for my own good. “How do you know about John-John?”

“It’s a small town Dietrich. I grew up here, you know. I know all kinds … how does that country song go? ‘I have friends in all the wrong places.’”

“And what are your hearing about Mr. John-John?”

“Oh nothing; people like him. Women like him. But he’s not easy. Maybe drinks too much. Someone called him the mayor of Flagler Avenue.”

I chuckled. “I can see that. I’ve never heard him use that phrase, but everywhere he goes people seem to know him. Did you know he has some connection to my father?”

“Your father? Why would he possibly know your father?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m thinking this envelope is going to tell me.”

As I tore open the envelope I asked her if her “sources” mentioned anything about what happened to Mary. They hadn’t. Maybe it was too fresh, hadn‘t moved along the grapevine yet. Carolyn had seen a story in the paper but Jess had been true to his word. No mention of me or John-John. The article simply said two passengers were unhurt.

I pulled some papers from my father’s envelope. On top of a thin stack was a letter, computer typed. I glanced to the bottom and saw it was signed by both my father and mother, but as I began to read I knew my father had written it.

“Dear Son: We have been out of touch since our visit in Orlando. We didn’t want to unduly influence your decision so we kept our distance. The truth is we could see what a hard choice you faced and we wanted you to feel we agreed with you, whichever way you eventually turned. We recognize that it’s not always on the great issues that a person’s integrity stands or falls. Or maybe we should say that sometimes the greatest issues are tucked inside seemingly small, even personal events. This appears to be the case with you as you struggle to protect one innocent boy from events beyond his control.

“Be proud of yourself son. From this day forward, whenever the ordained of our church gather, they will shake their heads in grudging admiration and say, ‘that Dietrich Waymire, he went too far but you have to respect him. He paid a price for what he believed in.’ I have a feeling they won’t have to add, ‘I wonder whatever happened to him?’ We are confident you will take care of that. Just a hunch.

“As you know, I (dad) also gained a reputation as a rebel in my day. Fortunately, the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement provided ample opportunity for expressions of righteous indignations (an opportunity many missed). Those were days of great issues but that does not make my moment of decision any more significant than yours. Probably less.

“I think you’ve heard how we challenged the church on its failure to grant official status to our young men as conscientious objectors, and that I paid a price for it. You never were told the specifics of what happened. You will find some documents with this letter that should help fill in the blanks.