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sometimes I feel...”
    “You would like to come back here and put your feet on the yellow brick road that leads to monsignor.” “Something like that.”
    Father Matt had his lanky ankles crossed, and was bouncing one mammoth foot rhythmically, listening.
    “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst out of that little parish. I’ve got so much energy it’s driving me crazy. We’ve got the budget back in the black. Collections have gone up—a little. People are responding to the Friday-night adult education course—a little. There’s less emphasis on bingo. I run around like a maniac all day long. And then there comes a minute that I start feeling like I’m choking.”
    Father Matt knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
    “The funny thing is that all the busy work doesn’t distract me from the people. I get very involved with their problems. Too involved. I lie awake, worrying. Did Janie have the abortion anyway? Did Mr. Hoover really hear me when I asked him if he wanted to confess, or had he already lost too much blood... ?” “Pray,” said Father Matt.
    I felt a little crushed. Surely he’d have a more ingenious answer than that.
    “You have very little inward life,” he said. “So you have no defense against all the stresses. I’ve told you before. You’ve made very little progress.”
    “I know,” I said miserably.
    “Make the effort to start building the habit of mental prayer. A moment here, a moment there. Surely you can find moments. While you’re driving to a sick call, even while you’re eating. Build on those moments. It’s the only way. The Bishop will ask you about the mortage, but Our Lord will ask you about your heart.”
    ‘To be honest with you,” I said, “I feel very close to my parishioners, but I feel very far from Our Lord.” Father Matt shook his head in disbelief, and looked out the window for a few minutes.
    “You’re one of the casualties of the new spirituality,” he said. “Actually, I’m not sure it is a spirituality. Back in the sixties, in the name of reform and revival, we threw a lot of the old forms overboard. Litanies, novenas, rosaries ... do you say the rosary?” “No,” I said. “I’m lucky if there’s time to say the Office every day.”
    “When you were down and out,” said Father Matt, “the rosary was better than nothing. It was a start, a place to focus your thoughts. We haven’t found anything to replace that old-fashioned spirituality . .
    After we talked a little more about the deficiencies of my spiritual life, Father Matt filled his pipe again and said:
    “Actually, your notion about moving to the diocesan office isn’t all that unrealistic.’’
    “How come?” I said.
    “Well, maybe I shouldn’t get your hopes up. But Bishop Carney is going to need a new secretary this fall, and he’s looking around for a replacement. He wants a young priest, and you’re one of the men being considered.”
    The gloom lifted off me with the speed of light.
    “He has a special regard for Father Vance, and he’s not one hundred percent sure that he wants to take you out of Cottonwood. So don’t get your hopes up. Just...”
    “... Pray,” I said, grinning.
    Father Matt smiled. “Sometimes our fantasies and God’s will coincide.”
    As I left, I wondered why I’d stuck with this one spiritual director so slavishly since the seminary days. Habit was one of my curses. On the other hand, Father Matt could make me uneasy or frighten me worse than any other priest I knew. Maybe this ambivalence about him was what was holding me back.
    » » »
    When I got to the city limits of Cottonwood, the clock in my dashboard said just past nine-thirty p.m.
    As I drove along the darkened fairgrounds and saw the bright neon signs and the two traffic lights of Main Street up ahead, I relaxed a little and thought, Father’ll be pleased, I’m home a little early. The lighted clock in the tower of the dark City Hall said nine thirty-five. The only life on