― Richelle Mead
I was asked to check the belfry for demons and ended up encountering a ghost.
I'm not sure if the one is less terrifying than the other but this particular ghost is affable and non-threatening so I must count my blessings.
Still, as the pastor and priest in charge of the church I can't allow a spirit to haunt the bell tower which necessitates coming to an understanding with him, affable or not.
“What do you want with me?” I ask the ghost.
“I want you to confess and absolve me. Do that, and I’ll be gone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”]
“You’re dead. The scripture says it’s appointed unto man to die once, and then the judgment.”
“Really?” the spirit croaks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Well then, how do you explain the fact I’m still here?”
“I have no explanation for that,” I moan.
“Exactly! So, go ahead and confess me and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I told you, I can’t.” I protest.
“Yes, but you also told me you have no explanation for why I’m still here. Obviously, God has allowed me to persist on this plane, so I have unfinished business.”
“And what business is that?”
“I amassed a sizeable fortune but died before I could bequeath it to charity. I had no living relatives and meant to do something good with my wealth.”
“So now, why don’t you just walk into a bank and sign it all over to charity? You have no problem making your will known to me.”
“Ah, but that’s the problem, Father. I didn’t trust banks—not since they failed during The Great Depression. I hid my money in caches all over town and have been using an angel to deliver gifts and cash donations for me.”
“An angel?”
“Yes, a messenger. Well actually, Andre—your custodian. I appeared to him and made him an offer he couldn’t resist. I’m afraid I scared him half to death though. Hence, my need to confess my sin.”
“So, you think giving your money away will atone for your sins?”
“No—not at all. I just want to do something useful with it—but now, I’ve committed a sin by blackmailing poor Andre into helping me.”
I'm getting frustrated. “Why don’t you just donate your money to the church—save St. Angelus from being torn down, or worse—turned into a restaurant?”
“A restaurant? That would be a horrid outcome. Yes, of course, I will help the church—but if I do, will you help me?”
I weigh the cost of giving a dead man absolution, but in the end, decide to do so as a charity to the living—and no, I’m still not sure of the theology.
I used to think I was a man of principles—now I think I’m just a man.
It’s funny how life changes you—circumstances bend you, or maybe you realize all the time it was you who was bending trying to fit a template that wouldn’t bend for you.
The vows you swear at twenty, don’t serve you well at thirty, and in the end you grudgingly conclude, you shouldn’t swear vows at all.
I don’t know where this leaves me—maybe bewildered, definitely enchanted, and perhaps a little in awe.
As for the details of what transpired, I suppose looking back it wasn’t really unexpected at all. In a way it was Fate, or God’s sovereign design—at the very least, His permissive will.
Oliver Morton went to his deserved rest a happy man.
St. Angelus was saved from the wrecking ball or worse, being at the mercy of Barbarians.
I resigned as pastor, although Bishop Wierton considered my departure a temporary retirement.
He shook my hand and reminded me. “You’re a priest forever, Tom, according to Hebrews 7.”
He also offered to marry me to Victoria Woods.
“I see it more as an annunciation, than a renunciation,” he told me.
And that Thanksgiving was the happiest feast the town had ever known, and it was all because of a repentant ghost and two lost souls finding love.