{A closed starter for @wellfatedā. For Edith.}
Visiting the home-bound parishioners was not a chore Father Paul detested in the least. There were more than a few things Beverly Keane might have to say about it, but he tended not to let her scathing opinions on things ruin what he considered both a duty and a privilege. He spent each morning in quiet prayer-- first to God and then to the Angel whose absence had been noticed more and more each day-- before preparing the tools and accoutrements he would need to share Communion with each of the families he visited. The Gunnings were first-- through no particular favoritism on his part, he swore-- and the Evans wrapped up his weekly commute before evening Mass, simply because their home was located at the end of the circle he walked across the Island.
Humming to himself as he approached, he wore a smile as he thought to himself about the miracles coming for the Island. It would take time, as these things often did, but they were coming and he felt himself blessed to be at the center of them. Shouldering his messenger pack a little more closely, he approached the Evansās residence with a bit of a spring to his step and wrapped his knuckles against the doorframe.
āMs. Evans? Itās Father Paul Hill. May I come in?ā
