Page 44 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Joe was already a regular, in spite of the scant few weeks he’d been attending. He’d always been easy with people; something about him made others want to open up and spill their troubles.

I was welcomed robustly, then walked with Joe to an empty pew. Shortly after we sat, Joe went to his knees, as naturally as if he’d turned on the television with a remote.

I studied the order of service I’d been given. Not much had changed since I was growing up. Change in a centuries-old religious organization came slowly, if at all.

Joe returned to his seat, but I continued to be quiet, sensing his need to remain still.

The clearing of throats let me know the processional had begun, and I rose with the others.

The routine was familiar, and it was soothing to go through the same motions I’d known since childhood. Stand up, sit down, kneel, stand, sit ... Church calisthenics. See? I could exercise.

But when Joe went up for communion, I shook my head. I hadn’t gone to confession, and had no intention of doing so, but the ritual stuck. Communion without confession wasn’t something I was able to do.

“Good to see you again, Joe,” the priest, a stocky man whose face disappeared in the arc of his smile, said. “And who is this?”

“My old friend, Diane O’Sullivan.”

“Welcome, Diane,’ he said, engulfing my hand in his. “I’m Father Tim. Are you here long?”

“Only a few weeks.”

“Well, come back and see us next week then. Joe, you make sure she does.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and here …” The priest reached into his voluminous robes and handed me a card. “I noticed you didn’t take communion. My number is on the card. I’d be happy to hear your confession any time.”

“I don’t think you have that long.” I smiled.

Joke with priest. Check.

“Nice meeting you,” I said and walked down the steps with Joe.

“Lunch? Brunch?” he asked.

“Food of any kind sounds good,” I said.

“The Running Bear Pancake House is my go-to,” Joe said. “They serve more than pancakes, including cinnamon roll pancakes.” He grinned and rubbed his stomach. “But there’s also chicken-fried steak with eggs and hash browns if you’re really hungry.”

The image of my naked body in the mirror rose in front of me.

“Do they have anything less … um … filling?”

He frowned. “Don’t do that to yourself,” he said.

“What?”

“Whatever is going on in your head. Brunch is to be enjoyed, like old friends and fine wine. Order what you want, eat until you’re satisfied, and take the rest home. Or not. Brunch is a judgement-free zone.”

As the prize-winning member of my mother’s clean-plate club, it was hard to fathom leaving food on the plate. All those starving children in Africa!

“If you say so.” I got in the passenger seat.

Minutes later, we were in front of a freshly-painted modest eatery. Several plate-glass windows gleamed. Joe gave his name to the man behind the podium who promised him a wait of only a few moments.

The business of saying yes to coffee and deciding what to order took up several minutes, but then we were left with each other.

“You said you were going to Mt. Rushmore from here.”

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