Monday, July 2nd, 2018
Father Coffedy paced the sacristy as he continued rehearsing the words of his upcoming sermon.
He knew the crowd wasn’t going to be large—today was a weekday after all—but that didn’t mean his most fervent parishioners didn’t deserve an inspiring message from him.
In a world where fake news, violence, and crime seemed to matter more than caring about each other, he owed it to those who came to pray with him. He took solace in the fact that the kindness of their communal words and prayers could make a difference.
He’d been told his well-chosen turns of phrases could help some see hope through dark times. His faith—and the faith of his parishioners—could positively affect the world, of that, he had no doubt. When even Father Matthews had been erroneously arrested for the murder of a young woman in the community, there was no clearer sign that the world was in clear need of help. Of His help, through the comforting words of his well-rehearsed sermon.
Confident his message would come out right, he moved toward his recently dry-cleaned alb hanging on the hook in front of him. He spotted the tag still stapled to the hem and pulled it off before slipping the garment over his head.
Uncertain whether his stole had also been to the dry-cleaner, he proceeded to inspect it, not wanting to look unprofessional with something as trivial as a tag sticking to his precious vestment. But what he found surprised him.
He looked around the sacristy as his mind wondered about what the item was, but also what it did.
Feeling as though it could be important, he headed down the hall to the admin office, which was empty at this time of day. But fumbling around through the items that covered the desk, he found what he was looking for: one of the detectives’ business card.
He called her number from the desk phone. It rang once, twice, three times.
“Detective Murphy,” she said.
“Detective, this is Father Coffedy, from St. Alban’s.”
“What can I do for you, Father?”
“Well, this may be nothing, but…”
“Go ahead.”
“While donning my stole this morning, I noticed something unusual.”
“I’m sorry. Your what?”
“My stole.” A long pause followed making Father Coffedy shake his head at the lack of education in the world these days. Shouldn’t detectives be more knowledgeable than that? Then again, she hadn’t struck him to be much of a Christian when they’d met.
“You do know what that is, don’t you?” he said in a tone he hoped was understanding but he’d heard it for what it had been: a little condescending.
She cleared her throat on the other end of the line before speaking. “Can’t say that I’m familiar with the term. Is that what you call your robe?”
“No. My robe is called an alb. The stole is the colorful piece of fabric I wear over my alb, around my neck.”
“Ah! Thanks for clarifying those terms for me.”
“I noticed a little something stuck to my stole.”
“Could you please describe it for me?”
“It’s small and hard. Not even half an inch square. It’s flat and dark gray—”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes, I’m holding it in my hand right now.”
“Thanks so much you for reporting this. Are you at St. Alban’s?”
“Yes, I’m getting ready for mass.”
“I’m coming to you. I need to pick it up right away.”