Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [1]
These two will never understand, however, that I came not for this place, not for them, and not even for the man who grew bushes of sweet lavender and tall stalks of pink and rose hollyhock. I am here not for the man who thought I was the sun, but for the child who was born broken and unformed, the child who was to take my place but who arrived too early and too fast. I came for him, and as if he had been waiting, he knew me when I first appeared. “Lady,” he calls me, the one who was here when he was born and the one who has never left his side.
I doubt he will speak of me to these two newcomers because he rarely talks about me to others, not because he doesn’t know me or doubts my presence, but because he believes I am a gift to him and he worries that if he speaks of me casually or too much or to too many people, I might find him indulgent and selfish and leave. I doubt, however, that I ever could. Especially now. Especially as the winds speak of change, the clouds of coming storms. Especially as they arrive.
He is, after all, my connection to all that I lost in death, my link to loved ones and earth and desert, and I am his connection to all that he lost in birth, his link to all that is beyond the land with its low ceiling of sky. And together we rely upon the thin air that somehow offers enough breath and lift for us both, the weaving of our two spirits, and this place we both know best, this place the newcomers seek, this place we both call home, this place known as Pie Town.
Chapter Two
Pie Town.” Father George Morris repeated the words the Monsignor had spoken. He echoed the name of his assignment without allowing for any emotion. He was not pleased, but he had no say in the matter. This was the place chosen for him. This was to be his parish, Pie Town, New Mexico.
His first ministry, his first call, was a three-point charge, three churches to serve as pastor, that was more than a hundred miles from the Catholic Diocese in Gallup and more than a lifetime away from everything he had ever known, every place upon which he laid claim, every sight that had become familiar. This was where he was instructed to start a new life, where he would live out what he believed had been dictated by God, discerned by pious and faithful men, and written upon his heart. Here was the place where he would exercise the lessons he had learned, the faith he had been granted, and the service for which he had been ordained.
Everything Father George had prepared for, planned upon, worked toward, it was all about to come to pass in a wide desert county surrounded by Indian land, mountain peaks, long empty plains, wilderness. He knew of Catron County because in his travel to Gallup to meet with the Monsignor, his journey west, he had studied every county in the forty-seventh state. He knew the parishes and the populations. He was hopeful he would be sent to Albuquerque or north to Taos. And even though he had been brought to Gallup and knew he was starting in the western corridor of the southwestern region, he had not expected this.
“Pie Town,” he said again as the Monsignor listened, letting the name of the town pass through his lips once more as if saying it somehow would help lead him to it.
“You will report to Father Joseph, who waits for your arrival. You will move into the parish house just beyond the town limits. And you will begin your duties this weekend. I’m sure Father Joseph will fill you in on the existing ministries of the Catron County parish and all of the details of your call.”
Father George waited.
“Is there something else?” the Monsignor asked. He glanced up at the young priest and then down at the clock on his desk. It was just after four in the afternoon, and he had one more appointment. He was hopeful he would have time for tea before the early evening services he was scheduled to conduct.
Father George shook his head, sensing his superior’s impatience. “No,” he whispered. “It is my honor to serve God in this place and to serve you in the ministry of the Church in the state of New Mexico.” It was