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parishioners. She comes from the part of my flock that I inherited when I first took over as pastor of The Church of Heaven’s God in Christ Lord Jesus many years ago. She is ancient and terrible. Smokes three packs a day, yet still breathes like a giant, healthy bellows. Now she breathes into my phone.
    She is in need of her pastor, she says. She apologizes for calling at so late an hour, but she has something important to talk to me about. She would like to see me in person, tonight, if possible. Could I see my way to dropping by? Again, she would not call if it were not important. She sounds genuinely upset.
    I look at the clock on the dash of my car. 9:30 p.m. And Ms. Washington’s message is from 8:00 p.m. I should be there by now.
    Regret.
    I would have been there—would have been able to pop over from my house to hers in a few short minutes—had I not driven to Merrillville. I would have done what pastors are supposed to do. I would have been there to comfort one of the most venerable and vulnerable members of my flock. And instead, I indulged myself.
    Bad pastor.
    It is now snowing. A light snow, but growing steadily with each passing swipe of my windshield wipers. I don’t remember hearing that a blizzard was in the forecast, but storms can sometimes blow in quickly off the lake. As I wind my way northward through dodgy neighborhoods dusted by snow, I dare to hope that Ms. Washington only needs some groceries before the storm hits. Something like that. I remember her as still getting around just fine, but she probably hesitates to use her car in weather like this. Maybe she needs her heart medicine from a pharmacy you have to drive to.
    Please let it be something like that.
    It has to be.
    It almost has to be.
    Regret ebbing.
    Somewhat.
    I turn down 71st Street and eventually merge into Lake Shore Drive, the highway that runs along the edge of Lake Michigan. I drive north at a good clip. There are very few cars on the road. To my left are parks and apartment buildings. The scene to my right varies, but usually shows thirty yards of trees and bike trails, then ten yards of beach, then the endless dark of Lake Michigan beyond.
    The flakes are coming down, but not really sticking. Every time I drive this way in the snow, I can’t help but think of the blizzard of 2011. It hit hard and fast, and hundreds of people were trapped inside their cars on this very road. The traffic slowed to a crawl and then to nothing. People couldn’t drive forward or backward. The snow quickly piled up too high to try off-roading, even if you had an SUV. After a few hours, people started running out of gas. The city had to send the fire department out on foot to rescue folks from their cars. It was an all-night operation. The next day, chilling photographs ran in newspapers around the world showing this wintry wasteland—a snow-blasted highway with rows and rows of gridlocked, abandoned cars leading off forever into the distance.
    Tonight, thankfully, traffic is light, and I’m doing forty-five miles an hour even in the snow.
    I edge farther north and pass Hyde Park—home of such venerable entities as Louis Farrakhan, Barack Obama, and The
    University of Chicago. Then I see something that makes me both furious and utterly astonished.
    There are people playing on the beach.
    I can scarcely credit it. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? I take one hand off my steering wheel and rub my eyes. When I look again, the people are still there. It’s almost unbelievable.
    Every twenty yards or so, I see a person walking around, knee-deep in the lake’s icy water. They do not wear coats or winter gear, much less insulated wetsuits. Some appear to be coming ashore—walking from out of the water up onto the beach— while others seem content to splash around in the waves. But they are, all of them, lingering. Taking their time.
    What the Hell?
    Can this be some sort of polar bear club? Or a