FATHER TIMOTHY STRATTON arrives at the Rectory promptly at 5 p.m. Considering the kind of work he does, he’s an unassuming, tiny man in his early 70s. His gray hair is thin, combed neatly over his otherwise bald pate. He has a kindly countenance, a perpetual smile on his lips, and eyes that still have a sparkle of joy in spite of the terrible things he’s no doubt seen. His black suit hangs on his thin frame and even his Roman Collar is loose around his neck. He carries one small bag and a suit bag, no doubt with a fresh set of clericals.
“Such an honor to meet you, Father Stratton,” I say, taking his offered hand. It feels as fragile as the rest of him looks, and I’m afraid of breaking it if I squeeze too hard.
“Oh, Father Greer,” he smiles. “Please, call me Father Tim. I’m just a humble
