I quickly shuffled through the other pieces to see what they were. There were two yellowed newspaper clippings taped to sheets of paper, and a document bearing the letterhead of the church. I hurried back to my parents‘ letter.

“We received a call recently from a gentleman you’ve met named John Johnson. He said he discussed having a history with us. This is true and the enclosed documents should help you understand that relationship. Call if you have any questions. And God bless you!”

The letter was signed, “With all our love, Mom and Dad.” Below the signature was this postscript: “p.s. … you didn’t know this because we never talked about it -- why is hard to say -- but some years ago we were given some money by someone who felt himself deeply in our debt and we used it to establish trust funds for you and your sister. The trust funds have substantial value now. We’ve asked the bank to send you a statement. We’re thinking maybe this is the ‘rainy day’ (or maybe the ‘knock of opportunity’) we were waiting for.”

“Time will tell which it is,” I thought. The first of the old news articles filled in the blanks on John-John’s arrest. Dateline, Daytona Beach, Fla. October 1969.

“Fugitive from justice John Johnson was arrested Saturday night when police responded to a disturbance outside a beachside nightclub. Johnson was wanted on charges of draft avoidance and desertion issued after he failed to report for induction in September of this year.

“A spokesman for the U.S. Army said a warrant was filed for Johnson’s arrest days after he failed to present himself to begin basic training. Staff Sergeant Albert Lester said it was ‘just a stroke of fortune’ that Johnson was detained on another matter, which led to discovery of the outstanding warrant. Sgt. Lester said that draftees who do not show up as ordered for induction are considered deserters by the Army. However, he declined to say what procedures the Army follows in an effort to locate these men.

“According to the Army spokesman, Johnson is being held at the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, pending trial. Johnson is listed in local utility records as living on North Oleander Drive in Daytona Beach. A phone call to that address was answered by a woman who claimed to be Johnson’s wife and who said that she was pregnant with his child.”

Married, I thought. Wonder what happened to her. And a child. None of this told me about John John’s relationship with my father. I slipped the article under the other papers and began to read the second clipping. This time it was an Orlando paper:

“Federal prosecutors released a written statement Friday saying they would not seek a conspiracy indictment against local minister John Waymire. The Reverend Waymire admitted helping Orlando resident Beauregard “Beau” McCarthy flee to Canada to avoid induction into the United States Army and possible assignment to the war in Vietnam. McCarthy remains under indictment should he return to the United States.

“A call to federal district prosecutors seeking clarification on why the charges were dropped was not returned.

“Rev. Waymire’s actions came to light in testimony from John Johnson, 22, who faces prosecution as a war deserter. In a previous interview with this newspaper, Waymire said he made contact with the so-called “underground railroad” to Canada after the two young men were denied conscientious objector status by their draft board. He drove Johnson and McCarthy to Detroit, Michigan where they planned to cross into Canada via the Ambassador Bridge. Johnson, however, changed his mind at the last moment and decided to return to Florida.

“Rev. Waymire said that based on his religious beliefs, McCarthy felt strongly that the war in Vietnam was “immoral” and that the board had erred in denying him a C.O. exemption . Waymire drove McCarthy over the bridge into Ontario and, as he had prearranged, delivered him to Canadian citizens who would help McCarthy settle into his new surroundings.

“Waymire said previously he would testify on Johnson’s behalf. He claimed that Johnson intended to turn himself in to authorities upon his return to Florida but was arrested before he could do so when police responded to an altercation outside a Daytona Beach bar.”

Carolyn had been waiting patiently. “Are you going to share?” I handed her the two articles. The final page was a letter of discipline from the church, the language sounding uncomfortably like the plan Charley had proposed for me. Except, apparently, Dad taken his medicine and moved on. The letter also prohibited him from participating in any public protests against the war.

This answered most of my questions -- not only about him and John-John but about his career. Doors closed to him; placements he should have had that he didn’t get. Here was a man with fire and talent -- even tall and good looking for God‘s sake! He should have gone to the top of the food chain, not been relegated to a series of small churches cleaning up the failures of lesser lights. But he never complained, and the way his fellow clergy treated him -- most anyway -- marked him as a hero in a way pastors of even the largest churches couldn’t match. Most preachers never get a chance to choose between obeying God or the law. He did.

Eventually, he took a job teaching at a Christian college where his past inevitably leaked out and earned him a special place in the students’ hearts. Carolyn had just moved to the second article when the phone rang. It was him.

“Yes, I did read it,” I said.

He paused a second like he thought I’d say more. “Do you have any questions?”

“I just wonder why you didn’t tell me any of this earlier.”

“Well son, I’ve never known how to present it to people so I kept it to myself. I don’t regret my little contribution, but I never really felt I did enough to say I did anything special. I was hardly the Berrigan brothers.”

“You’re better than the Berrigans to me. I’m very proud of you; look at all the good you did staying in the ministry.”

“I always regretted giving up my right to protest against the war. I felt strongly about it. When those boys came to me asking for my help, I … well, at that point I was like most people my age -- I hadn’t really thought about taking a personal stand one way or the other. They forced me to, and I saw they were right. But after helping Beau get away to Canada I wasn‘t able to do all--”

“You did more than your part. The proof is in the price you paid.”

“I hope so, son. I often wonder if I paid enough of a price.”

“How much more should you have paid?”

“I don’t know. At the time, with the government threatening felony charges against me, I felt like I was sinking. But I never hit rock bottom. I thought more than once that maybe if I had hit rock bottom I’d have … I don’t know … bounced back and become more than I did.”

“Why did the government drop charges against you?”

“That was Mr. Johnson’s doing. He made it part of his plea bargain that they wouldn’t prosecute me. He took an extra year in federal prison to get me off the hook.”

“John-John did that?”

“He has his faults but in his own way he’s an exceptional man. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Believe me dad, I don’t.”

I promised my father I’d come and visit him and mom soon. He mentioned something about maybe coming over some time and getting together with me and John-John. He laughed about having a beer together, just three men with their own special eye on the world boosting up each other’s egos. I said I’d like to do that. My ego could use a little boost right now. He stopped laughing and almost whispered his goodbye. I could hear him fighting back tears as he added, “always remember son: If God is for you, no one can be against you.”

He hung up and a cold chill swept through me as I remembered a dream. I had it first as an adolescent and then again at seminary. In it I was always the young boy who first dreamed the dream. There was nothing magical about it, nothing terrifying, no instant epiphany. Each time I had it, I wondered why it kept coming back. I was in a big old house, a house I didn’t recognize, and my father, not me, was the main character. He was naked from the waist up. I could see his long lean torso, a lot like mine now but a little less muscular. He wandered from room to room in the big house, opening doors, standing in the doorway, looking in, then closing the door and moving on. The windows were open in the rooms and the wind blew the curtains around. Back in the hallway all was calm and pleasant. I walked close behind him but he seemed not to notice me there. He opened another door -- the third, the fourth, who knows; do you know such things in a dream? This time I walked past him into the room and turned to face him. Did the wind calm? I can‘t say. I do remember his face growing calm as I looked up at him. He saw me, smiled, and said, “there you are.” The chill that moved through me lasted only seconds, like the dream -- less time than the telling -- but I now felt a hint about what it meant.

Carolyn laid down the articles and I handed her the letter from the church. My thoughts were on those days of the late sixties. I was almost jealous. I was just ten or eleven years old -- too young to be affected by the draft but old enough to know something unusual was happening. It was a time of confusion but a time when people believed in their passions. Decisions made from passion were decisions to believe in, right or wrong. I was so proud of my father. I had never wanted more to be like him. He, I could tell, wanted me to scoop up the ball where he had dropped it and move it even farther down the field.

Carolyn slid all the papers back inside my father’s envelope. “I guess now I understand your behavior,” she said. “You’re bred from a rebel bloodline.”

“And are you ready to be a rebel’s wife?”

“Maybe I have more rebel in me than we know about,” she said.

I stepped behind her chair and wrapped my arms around her from behind, laughing a little laugh. “You may need to be a little contrary in the days ahead.”

“I hope I‘m up to it,” she said.