Twenty
I WAKE UP THURSDAY morning and realize I have no idea what my homily is going to be for Ashley Becket’s funeral.
“And I thought figuring out what to say at Leslie’s funeral was difficult,” I say as I stretch,
OK, I know that I should have already written it. But frankly, I don’t like writing homilies for funerals.
And writing a homily for an eighteen-year-old girl who was brutally murdered might just prove beyond my abilities.
But, I think as I stand under the shower, letting the water both wake me up and wash yesterday off of me, I have the easy job. Because whatever I come up with, I only have to write it.
The Beckets have to listen to it.
I finish getting ready to face the day, don a clean set of clericals, and go down to breakfast.
Before I’m even down the stairs, I hear
