Father Phil

"Is this my friend the Beach Patrolman and the Baptist?" the called asked.

"Who is this?" I replied. "My friends do not call me names like that."

"You Catholic friend from Cleveland," he answered.

"Oh Hi Phil," I quickly responded.

Phil is a priest who has become a friend over the past several years. We like to stand on the beach and conserve seriously about the state of religion.

"Phil," I once told him as we sipped beer and stared at the sea, "My dearly departed friend Vernon Robertson once told me that every successful organization has at least one Son-of-a-bitch. And that is why the Catholic Church has the Pope."

"What?" he exclaimed.

"The people want Priest to marry. The Pope says no. The people want birth control. The Pope says no. The people want Nuns to have more authority in the Church. The Pope says no. See what I'm saying?"

"Well the problem with you Baptist is that you have a hundred thousand Sons-of-bitches all wanting to be the one."

He had me there.

Anyway, he called out of the blue as he ran across my phone number while he was cleaning out some things and immediately dialed.

"I was thinking about you the other day as I baptized Issac," he began.

"Who's Issac?"

"A homeless schizophrenic. A couple of Alter boys had to hold him still as I did the baptism."

"And this reminded you of me?"

Phil laughed. "Well, not you really but your work. I've still got your books and refer to them from time to time."

"Oh, you're the one," I answer.

"So what's been going on?" he asked.

And I told him. From the last time I saw him in June until yesterday. I confessed it all and didn't have to worry about entering one of those musty booths. When I finished he was quite for several long seconds.

"Do you believe in God?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"I think that it was God who made me find your phone number so that I would call you."

"You think God doesn't delegate these less important matters to someone else?"

"Micheal," he chided.

"OK, I believe in serendipity."

Then he went on to tell me that we should talk more often and that if I don't call him, he will call me so I'd better get used to it. Then he told me that I was going to be the focus of his prayers in Mass until we see each other again in June. Then he hung up with a quick blessing of thanks for my life.

I laid the phone on the table on the back deck and propped my feet on the rail. I looked at the bright sun and the blue skies and the green leaves dancing in the salty ocean breeze. And I thought about Phil. And Stacy. And Shirely. Bill. Mary Ann. Keller. Mom. Healing Hands. And the other gifts who somehow appeared over the past several months.

And I thought that in spite of shitstorms that we sometimes live through, God is indeed good.