Seven
MY HANDS ARE GETTING calloused from all the handshakes, and the hugs soon remind me that not all of my injuries from Bellamy are completely healed.
I momentarily regret standing outside to greet people on the way out. It’s still February in the mountains, which means it’s still chilly, and I’ve never been able to figure out how to wear an overcoat over my Mass vestments. But that regret vanishes with every handshake, with every hug, with every little person who grasps me around the knees and says, “I love you, Father.”
I’m talking to Bill Brandt, the head of the Knights of Columbus, who wants to make sure I’m at the Lenten Fish Fry on Friday night. Three weeks ago, I would have thought up an excuse or, at best, given a non-committal “I’ll have to check my schedule” before figuring
