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fall 1999
“It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Mr. Sullivan,” Pastor Dan said, squeezing Henry’s hand and giving it a firm, friendly shake. Henry grunted in response and sat down in the armchair across from him, looking around as he did so. Apart from a quick meeting before he and Lucille were married and a handful of forgotten childhood moments, Henry had never been inside a pastor’s office before. There were bookshelves lining the perimeter of the room, all full. The books’ faded, cracked spines hinted that Pastor Dan had actually read them; Henry didn’t think he’d ever met a man who seemed to read so voraciously.
“So. What can I do for you?” Pastor Dan asked, taking a seat behind his desk and indicating the overstuffed armchair on the other side for Henry to sit down. Henry sat and pulled Lucille’s journal out of the bag he’d brought along with him. He glanced out the window and saw a flock of geese flying in formation and a mini tornado of leaves kicked up by the wind.
That time, Henry mused. He’d have to kick up the woodstove soon. Maybe Luce was ready to learn how to do that too.
“You spoke with my wife before she died,” Henry began stiffly. He hadn’t quite planned what to say to the man; all he knew was that he wanted some insight on what, exactly, had happened with his wife in her final days. Pastor Dan nodded his head once with an affable smile and kept a steady gaze on him. “Well…well, I just—” What, exactly, am I doing here? He cleared his throat and fixed Pastor Dan with what he hoped was a stern look. “I’ve read her journal, and it seems like you two spoke an awful lot about…you know…God. And all that.”
“That’s true.”
“Well—” Henry was frustrated. Whatever he had hoped for this conversation, he was not getting it. “What do you think? What sorts of things did she say?”
Pastor Dan scratched his forehead and leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Ordinarily, I am bound to confidentiality, Mr. Sullivan,” Pastor Dan began. “But I suppose, under the circumstances, I can let that go.” He rubbed his beard in a professorial way for a few moments, leaving Henry waiting impatiently. “Your wife was a remarkable woman, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. She loved you very deeply. I’m—I’m very sorry for your loss.” He sounded genuine. Henry felt an upswell of emotion and fought to maintain his composure. The one-year anniversary of Lucille’s death was that week, and Henry realized with a start that it had been that long since he’d spoken to someone who’d actually known her. “She asked me a lot of questions. She wondered about your children, mainly—what had happened to them, and why.”
“What did you tell her?”
Instead of answering, Pastor Dan asked Henry a question. “What’s making you curious? Why now?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know everything you could about your wife’s last conversations?”
Pastor Dan conceded the point with a slight nod. “I told her, in short, to talk to God about it.”
Henry sat back and narrowed his eyes. “Typical,” he muttered.
“What makes you say that?”
“You have a dying woman in your office, and you couldn’t just answer her questions?”
“Mr. Sullivan—forgive me, but…no. I couldn’t. I don’t know what happened to your children. I did tell her what I believe, which is that God does not hold young children accountable for a world they can’t yet understand. I believe your older three children are with God. I don’t know abut Luce’s mother. I’m sorry; I wish I did. I do know that God is just and merciful, and that He grieves every lost soul. I know that doesn’t quite answer your question. But it’s the only honest answer I can give.”
Henry stared at him hard for a few silent moments, and then he released a long sigh. With his hands pressing against his knees, he stood and glared at the pastor. “Waste of time,” he said with acid in his voice. He turned to go; at the last moment, Pastor Dan said his name, and he turned back around.
“I don’t know if this helps, Mr. Sullivan, but I want you to know that your wife was very hopeful, every time I met with her. Very curious—full of questions—but very much hoping and believing that good things were coming. For her, and for you.”
“Well, she was wrong about that, wasn’t she?”
“How do you mean?”
Henry stared at the man; what kind of an idiot was he? “She’s dead.”
“Death isn’t the end, Mr. Sullivan. Your wife’s soul—as well as yours, and mine, and everyone’s—is eternal. I believe that it was that eternity she was looking forward to.”
Henry stayed where he was for five or ten seconds; then, he pulled open the door and walked out. What does he know? he thought to himself, grunting at the receptionist as he left.
He was back the next day. He’d turned Pastor Dan’s words around and around in his mind throughout the night and had come to the conclusion that, however odious, he might be the only one who could help him understand Lucille’s end.