Booktree.ng_Forgotten-Witness

white wisps of clouds, an underscore of black shingles and red
tile rooftops.
The pews and kneelers were built from blond wood and
there was no barrier between the nave and the sanctuary.
Josie’s shoes were soft soled so it wasn’t until she was almost
on top of the women cleaning the altar that they noticed her.
“Hello,” the tall woman said, her smile glorious in the house
of the lord. “You must be the woman Father Ridge is
expecting.”
“Right through there.” The shorter one pointed to a door
before Josie could answer.
Josie said her thanks, breathed in the smell of Pledge and
Windex as she passed the altar, opened the sacristy door, and
found a white haired man repairing a torn vestment.
“Father Ridge?”
He looked up; he smiled.
“You are the spitting image of your mother.”
***
Father Christopher Ridge was eighty-three years old and had
lost his faith in many things but not God. He was, however,
beginning to have doubts that God was a white-haired,
bearded guy. In fact, he was thinking that maybe Joan Osborne
had it right; perhaps God was one of us.
And would Josie like something to drink?
And, yes, he learned to sew quite handily when he was in
the army so he mended his own vestments. He could also cook
and liked to watch reruns of Monk.
Josie found all this out in the space of ten minutes after they
had settled in, taking two small chairs near a round table by
the window. When he was finished telling her these things,
Josie handed him the letter.