Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [32]
Father George smiled as he watched everyone run to Alex. The boy had hit a home run.
“Kinda reminds me of how I used to think about heaven.” A voice spoke from behind the priest.
Father George turned around. Trina was standing there. She was wearing a different pair of shorts and a different tight T-shirt, but she looked about the same as the day they met. “You just get here?” he asked, feeling his face reddening. She had some hold over him.
“I had to walk,” she replied. “Couldn’t find a priest in a station wagon anywhere,” she added.
He nodded, turned to watch the crowd still congratulating Alex, then back again to Trina. “What do you mean it’s how you used to think of heaven?” he asked.
She headed over to stand next to him. “All those people out there doing something as simple and easy as playing a game of ball. Kids, old people, all of them wanting the same thing at exactly the same time. All their minds together like that, wanting something pure and wonderful, like seeing a little boy hit a ball and be the hero.” She shrugged. “Just seems like what heaven ought to be.”
Father George looked over at the first person he had met in Pie Town. He felt connected to her in some troublesome way. She reminded him of the things he was trying to forget.
“What about you, Father George?” she asked.
“What about me?” he asked, surprised by the question, worried about what she was asking.
“What do you think heaven will look like?” She had jumped up and was sitting on the picnic table.
“Oh,” he replied, and then considered the question. “Pearly gates, streets of gold.” He paused. “I haven’t really thought much about it, since I spend most of my time just trying to make sure I get there.” He turned to Trina.
“Well, it seems to me like you want to make sure it’s a place you want to go before you waste your life trying to earn a trip inside.” She pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees.
The priest turned away from the young woman sitting on the table and back to watch the group on the softball field. Someone else was up to bat, and a few people were heading back to the tables.
“Look, a feather,” she announced, jumping down from the table and picking up a small white feather. “My grandfather used to tell me that when you found a feather it meant an angel had passed by.” She held it in her hand, sliding it through her fingers, remembering her mother’s father, his kindness, the one bright spot in her otherwise dim childhood. “You believe in angels?” she asked as she stuck the feather behind her ear.
Father George glanced down. “I believe in the saints,” he answered. “The apostles, Peter, Paul, James, the mother of our Lord, Mary, of course. And I do believe the scriptures make reference to a number of angels who assist our Heavenly Father, Michael and Gabriel being the most familiar.”
“I’m not talking about those big scary ones from the Bible who came down in their long white robes, making some grand announcement. I’m talking about now. Don’t you have a guardian angel?” Trina asked.
Father George cleared his throat. He placed his arms across his waist and then dropped them by his side. He cleared his throat again.
“It’s not a test, George,” Trina said, noticing his discomfort.