“Well, of course you can put it on. That’s your training -- and your personality -- I suppose. But you’ve treated the church like it’s some kind of tyrant. Look at all the good churches have done … hospitals, missions, helping people in emergencies … you yourself went to New Orleans after Katrina. And look how our congregation helped people after the hurricanes hit here in ’04. And then along comes this one boy and rather than go along with a fair-minded plan from your superiors, you throw it all away. I don’t get it. It doesn’t seem right! I‘ll be honest; it doesn’t even seem to me like what God would want.”

If I wanted to be hostile I’d have asked how long she’d been writing that speech. I walked to the windows and turned to face her.

“I never said the church hasn’t done great things. I’m sure it will continue doing great things -- with or without me. Oh, I could quote scripture to you, tell you about Jesus saying we’ll be judged by the way we treat the least of our brothers and sisters, or repeat the passage I read in Charley’s office about the one lost sheep of the hundred, explain that when Jesus asked which one of you would go after it, I heard him speaking straight to me.”

“None of us wanted to throw that boy under the bus. You were just so stubborn, wouldn’t even listen to the plan we--”

“Please Mrs. Chisholm; you listen for a second. The point is, I could claim what I did was all about Sagan and not wanting to put him back into any program, even if it was the best damn rehab program in the country, and at that moment maybe it was true -- defending Sagan was my sole motivation. But what I’ve come to believe since is that God was recruiting a prophet.

“I’ll always love and respect the church, but try to picture it this way: the church is like a great river that flows wide and strong and makes the land along its banks fertile for miles and miles. But there are places the river doesn’t reach where the land is parched and thirsty. God knows that land needs water too, maybe needs it worse than the land along the river. To reach it, God had to create a branch from the river--”

“And that branch is named Dietrich?”

“I believe so.”

“You’re sure it’s not just your ego?”

“I don’t think so, but a strong ego might be an asset. Maybe God has given me a strong ego for this purpose.”

I turned toward the window. If any doubt was on my face, I didn’t want her to see it. I heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floor and felt her hand on my shoulder.

“You’re cut from a different cloth than me, Dietrich. I’ve always thought of people like you as weak and foolish dreamers, but until now I’ve never actually known one so … intimately. I still think you may be foolish, but I can see you’re not weak. I have to admit I admire you. But then, I always have.”

I turned and we hugged. “Thank you mom,” I said. “I’ll talk to Carolyn about the non-profit. Give me a week if you will.”

She said alright and I left feeling better about her and more secure about the future. If God can use me, why can’t God use her? We’re all made of the same clay. Who am I to determine who should and shouldn’t have an opportunity to do God’s will? Maybe I was to be like the tree Jesus describes that grows from the smallest seed so that all the birds of the air will be given branches on which to rest.

Driving away, north on South Atlantic, I spotted a bicycler pedaling toward me, half in the road. I checked my rearview mirror before easing over, then noticed the approaching rider waving at me. It was John-John. We stopped on the shoulder just short of a collision.

“I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell padre,” he gasped. “I rode over to the new house and your wife told me where you were.”

“I had the ringer off.” We were just a day and a half from Sunday morning. “Is there a problem with Sunday?”

“Oh no, I got that lined up like ducks,” he assured me. “No, what I was wantin’ to say was I got a call from your old … your father--”

“Is something wrong with him … or my mother?”

“Don’t worry, nothin’ like that. He wanted to tell me Beau is coming for a visit. Beau is my old friend that your father helped--”

“Yes, I know. Canada during Vietnam.”

“We were best friends.”

“And now?”

“It’s been a long time. But here’s the thing. John -- your father -- told Beau about what you’re doin’ and he wants to meet you. He’s gonna come over Sunday for our … whatever we’re calling it on the beach.”

“That’s great. I’ll look forward to it.”

Did he ride all this way just to tell me that? Hardly urgent, I thought. I started back to my open car door but John-John put a hand on my arm. “Here’s the thing padre,” he said. “Beau has a ton of money -- an’ I mean a ton -- so I’m thinkin’ maybe he could kinda help us out; be … what’s the word? A patron.”

“You mean help support our ministry? Of course, if he’s willing.”

“I was just thinking that if we play our cards right, Beau might--”

“What do mean by ‘play our cards?’ Is this a game, John-John?”

“Hey padre, don’t get offended. We gotta eat.”