Light from heaven

All good things even laughter and orange marmalade cake must come to an end.

And in Light from Heaven , the long-anticipated final volume in the phenomenally successful Mitford Years series, Karon deftly ties up all the loose ends of Father Timothy Kavanagh s deeply affecting life.

On a century-old valley farm where Father Tim and Cynthia are housesitting, there s plenty to say grace over, from the havoc of a windstorm to a surprising new addition to the household and a mystery in the chicken house.

It s life on the mountaintop, however, that promises to give Father Tim the definitive challenge of his long priesthood. Can he step up to the plate and revive a remote, long-empty mountain church, asap? Or has he been called to accomplish the impossible? Fortunately, he s been given an angel in the flesh, of course.

Light from Heaven is filled with characters old and new and with answers to all the questions that Karon fans have asked since the series began nearly a decade ago.

Chapter One A Winter Eden The first flake landed on a blackberry bush in the creek bottom of Meadowgate Farm. In the frozen hour before dawn, others found their mark on the mossy roof of the smokehouse; in a grove of laurel by the northwest pasture; on the handle of a hoe left propped against the garden fence. Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof. The owl hooted once, then twice. As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the waters surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe. It was twelve minutes after six oclock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked Meadowgates hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows. From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow. Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape. It makes everything innocent again, she said. A winter Eden. At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record hed jotted down. Unbelievable! Weve had snow one, two, three, four . . . this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve. Snow, snow, and more snow! Not to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here. Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair. Ugh! said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog. Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. So what are you doing today, Kavanagh? Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. Im doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and Im calling Puny to find out about the twinstheyre days late, you know. Good idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. Theyll be ready for kindergarten. And you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for Dooleys homecoming dinner tomorrow. Consider it done. His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; hed scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid- January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer whod replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as shed done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around. In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas. He had scratched his head throughout the month of January, trying to reckon what the challenge might be. In February, hed called Stuart, attempting to gouge it out of him, but Stuart had asked for another couple of weeks to get the plan together before he spilled the beans. Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word. Youre sighing, Timothy. Wondering when Stuart will get off the pot. Hes retiring in June and consecrating the cathedralaltogether, a great deal to say grace over. Youll hear soon, dearest. She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude. So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America. Why bother, after all, about some challenge that may or may not be coming. Hadnt he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime? His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, shed decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace. So hows it coming with War and Peace? I despise telling you this, but I havent opened it once. Im reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver. And the fries? Since Dooley comes tomorrow, Ill be conducting my next experimentto see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And Im definitely using peanut oil this time. Ill peel and cut, he said. He hadnt seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it. Pathetic, she said, reading his mind. Im all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. Ive decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun. Im definitely a dud in the eye shadow department. She thumped into the wing chair opposite him and took a sip from her coffee mug. And what about you, dearest? Have you accomplished all your lifetime goals? Oddly, the question stung him. I suppose I havent thought about it. Maybe he hadnt wanted to think about having any further goals. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the wing chair. I believe if I were charged with having a goal, it would be to live without frettingto live more fully in the moment, not always huffing about as Ive done in recent years . . . to live humblyand appreciativelywith whatever God furnishes. He reflected for a moment and raised his head and looked at her. Yes. That would be my goal. But arent you doing that? No. I feel obligated to get out there, to open myself to some new and worthwhile service. Ive been a bump on a log these last weeks. Its OK to be a bump on a log once in a while. Be still, He tells us, and know that I am God. We must learn to wait on Him, Timothy. All those years of preaching and celebrating, and doing the interim at Whitecapwhat a lovely legacy God allowed you to have there; and ministering to Louella and Miss Sadie and HTlFne Pringle and Morris Love and George Gaynor and Edith Mallory and the Leepers . . . She took a deep breath. On and on, an entire community, for heavens sake, not to mention volunteering at the Childrens Hospital and rounding up Dooleys little sister and brothers . . . One brother still missing, he said, and what have I done about it? There may be nothing you can do about it. Theres absolutely nothing to go on, no leads of any kind. Maybe God alone can do something about it. Perhaps Kenny is Gods job. The fire crackled on the hearth; the dogs snored. His wife had just preached him a sermon, and it was one he needed to hear. He had a mate who knew precisely what was what, especially when he didnt. Let us then be up and doing, he quoted from Wordsworth, with a heart for any fate! Wheres the grocery list? In my head at present, but lets get it out. She opened the small drawer in the lamp table and removed her notebook and pen. Steak! She scribbled. Same old cut? Same old, same old. New York strip. This would be no Lenten fast, but a Lenten feast for a starving college boy who was seldom home. Russet potatoes, she said, continuing the litany. Always best for fries. His blood would soon get up for this cookathon, even if he couldnt eat much on the menu. While some theologians construed St. Pauls thorn to be any one of a variety of alarming dysfunctions, hed been convinced for years that it was the same blasted affliction hed ended up withdiabetes. Pie crusts, she said, scribbling on. Oh, rats. For the life of me, I cant remember all the ingredients for his chocolate pie, and of course, I didnt bring my recipe box. I never liked the recipe we use, he said, suddenly confessional. Youre not supposed to even touch chocolate pie, Timothy, so what difference does it make? Dooley loves it; it isnt half bad, really. It needs something. Like what? Something more . . . you know. Whipped cream! His wife loved whipped cream; with the slenderest of excuses, she would slather it on anything. Not whipped cream. Something more like . . . He threw up his hands; his culinary imagination had lately flown south. Meringue, then. Meringue! he said, slapping his leg. Thats it! She bolted from her chair and trotted to the kitchen counter. Marges recipe box . . . I was thumbing through it the other day and I vaguely remember . . . Lets see . . . Onions in Cream Sauce, Penne Pasta with Lump Crabmeat, that sounds good. . . . Keep going. Pie! Bingo. Buttermilk Pie . . . Vinegar Pie . . . Fresh Coconut . . . Mark that one! Egg Custard . . . Fresh Peach . . . Deep-Dish Apple . . . Enough, he said. Im only human. Here it is. Chocolate Pie with Meringue. Finish that list, Kavanagh, and Im out of here. Ha! Hed denied himself as sternly as one of the Desert Fathers these last weeks; he would have the tiniest sliver of that pie, or else . . . I know what youre thinking, she said. He pulled on his jacket and foraged in the pockets for his knit cap, and kissed her warm mouth. You always know what Im thinking, he said. His hand was on the doorknob when the phone rang. Do try to find a haircut while youre in town, she said, picking up the receiver. Youve got that John-the-Baptist look again. Hello! Meadowgate Farm. He watched her pause, listening, then grin from ear to ear. Thanks for calling, Joe Joe. Thats wonderful! Congratulations! Give Puny our love. Ill be over on Thursday. Timothys headed into Mitford now, Im sure hell stop by. So? he asked, excited as a kid. Boys! Weighing in at fifteen pounds total! Thomas and . . . She paused, and looked all- knowing. And? Thomas and Timothy! No! Yes! One named for Punys grandfather and one named for you. Now there are two little boys in this world whore named for you, and I hope you realize that people dont go around naming little boys for a bump on a log. Boys! And because Punys father was long deceased, he would be their granpaw, just as he was granpaw to Puny and Joe Joes twin girls. His entire chest felt suffused with a warm and radiating light. He turned onto the state road, which had already been scraped for the school buses, and headed south past the Baptist church and its snow-covered brush arbor. He glanced at the wayside pulpit, which was changed weekly. if loving god were a crime, would you be in jail? Getting around was a piece of cake. The heavens had given them only a couple of inches, and in a farm truck built like a tank, he felt safe and thoroughly above it all. Patently envious. Patently envious. What could a bigwig bishop, albeit his oldest friend, envy in a country parson? There it was again, the tape running in a loop and promising to work his mind into a lather. I roll this whole mystery over to You, Lord, he said aloud, and thank You for this day! In truth, the whole day belonged to him. He would stop by the hospital to see Puny and her new brood; he would run over to Hope House and visit Louella; he would make a noon stop at Lew Boyds Exxon where the Turkey Club was lately convening; he would have a chin-wag with Avis at The Local. . . . As for getting a haircut, he had no intention of trusting his balding head to Fancy Skinner ever again, period; Joe Ivy had retired from cutting hair and wanted nothing more to do with such a trade; trooping to the barber shop in Wesley would take too much time. So, no, indeed, absolutely not, there would be no haircut on this trip into civilization. The sun broke through leaden clouds and flooded the countryside with a welcome light. Yee hah! he shouted against the considerable din of the truck engine. Why had he felt so bereft and grumpy only a half hour before, when he was now beginning to feel like a new man? He switched on the radio to the blast of a country music station; it was golden oldies time. I bought th shoes that just walked out on me. . . . someone sang. He sang along, hardly caring that he didnt know the words. Country come to town! he whooped as he drove into Mitford. Roaring past the Exxon station, he blew the horn twice, just to let the general public know hed arrived. He bent and kissed her forehead. Well done, he said, a lump in his throat. Two sets of twins! May God have mercy. . . . Theyre whoppers, she said, smiling up at him. His so-called house help of ten years, and the one whom he loved like a daughter, lay worn but beaming in the hospital bed. He took her hand, feeling the rough palm that had come from years of scrubbing, polishing, cooking, washing, ironing, and generally making his life and Cynthias far simpler, not to mention indisputably brighter. Thank you for naming one of your fine boys after this old parson. We wont call im by th fancy name. Itll jis be Timmy. Timmy. I always liked it when Mother called me Timmy. Timmy an Tommy, she said, proudly. Timmy and Tommy and Sissy and Sassy. Youll be the boys granpaw, too, she said, in case he hadnt considered this. Itll be an honor to be their granpaw. Father? Since hed officiated at her wedding several years ago, she had taken to calling him by his priestly title in a way that subtly claimed him as her true father. He never failed to note this. Blast, if he wasnt about to bawl like baby. Yes, my dear? I sure do love you and Cynthy. There they came, rolling down his cheeks like a veritable gulley washer. . . . And we sure do love you back, he croaked. So, hows the food at Hope House these days? He sat on the footstool by Louellas rocking chair, feeling roughly eight or ten years old, as he always had in the presence of Miss Sadie and Louella. Oh, honey, some time its good, some time it aint fit for slop. He noted that Louella said aint now that Miss Sadie, who forbade its use, had passed on. You take th soup th menu has th same ol soup on it every day, day after day, long as I been here. She looked thoroughly disgusted. What soup is that? Soup du jour! If they caint come up with moren one soup in this high-dollar outfit, I aint messin with it. Aha, he said. My granmaw, Big Mama, said soup was for sick people, anyway, an I aint sick an aint plannin to be. Thats the spirit. Louella rocked on. The warm room, the lowering clouds beyond the window, and the faint drone of the shopping network made him drowsy; his eyelids drooped. . . . Louella suddenly stopped rocking. I been meanin to askwhat you doin bout Miss Sadies money? He snapped to attention. What money is that? Dont you remember? I tol you bout th money she hid in that ol car. Old car, he said, clueless. In that ol Plymouth automobile she had. Louella appeared positively vexed with him. Louella, I dont have any idea what you mean. Your memry must be goin, honey. Why dont you tell me everything, from the beginning. Seem like I called you up an tol you, but maybe I dreamed it. Do you ever dream somethin so real you think it happened? I do. A while before she passed, Miss Sadie got mad bout th market fallin off. You know she made good money in that market. Yes, maam, she did. Hadnt she left Dooley Barlowe a cool million plus at her passing? This extraordinary fact, however, was not yet known to Dooley. She say, Look here, Louella, Im goin to put this little dab where those jack legs at th market cant lose it. I say, Miss Sadie, where you goin to put it, under yo mattress? She say, Dont be foolish, Im goin to put it in my car an lock it up. Shed quit drivin an her car was up on blocks in th garage. She say, Now dont you let me forget its in there. And? he asked. An I went an let er forget it was in there! The 1958 Plymouth had been sitting for several years in the garage behind Fernbank, Miss Sadies old home on the hill above Mitford. Fernbank was now owned by Andrew Gregory, Mitfords mayor, his Italian wife, Anna, and his brother-in-law, Tony. Well, it probably wasnt much, he said, reassuring. Wadnt much? It mos certainly was much. It was nine thousand dollars! Nine thousand dollars? He was floored. Dont holler, she instructed. You dont know who might be listenin. Youre sure of that amount, Louella? Sure, Im sure! Miss Sadie an me, we count it out in hunerd dollar bills. How many hunerd dollar bills would that be? I forget. Umm, that would be ninety bills. Yessir, honey, it was ninety, it took us til way up in th day to count them hunerds out, cause ever time we counted em out, Miss Sadie made us start all over an count em out agin! Good idea, he said, not knowing what else to say. We got a rubber band and put it aroun all them bills, an took out a big envelope and whopped em in there, an I licked th flap and sealed it up tight as Dicks hat band, so nothin would fall out. She say t me, Louella, you th best frien I ever had, but you caint go down there with me, this is between me an th Lord. Then she struck out to th garage, an when she come back, she was proud as a pup wit two tails. I say, Miss Sadie, where you put that money in case you pass? She say, I aint goin t pass any time soon, dont worry about it. Sometime later she mention that money; we was livin at Miss Olivias ol house. She say she ought to go get it out of where she put it, but th market was still real bad. Then, we both plumb forgot. Thother day I was settin in this rockin chair watchin th soaps an it come to me like a lightnin strike. I said, oh, law! Somethin bad goin to happen to Miss Sadies money, an Miss Sadie, shell be hoppin mad. He was dumbfounded by this strange turn of events. As far as what might be done about it, his mind felt oddly pickled. Louellas immense bosom heaved with a sense of the urgent mission to be carried forth; she leaned toward him and lowered her voice. So, she said, what you goin t do bout Miss Sadies money? On the way to Main Street, he zoomed by their yellow house on Wisteria Lane and found it looking spic, not to mention downright span. Harleys general supervision of its welfare made it possible to spend this carefree year at Meadowgate. He threw up his hand and waved. Well be back! he shouted. He wheeled into Lew Boyds Exxon, still occasionally referred to as the Esso station, and saw the Turkey Club sprawled in plastic deck chairs inside the front window. The lineup included J. C. Hogan, longtime Mitford Muse editor; Mule Skinner, semiretired realtor; and Percy Mosely, former proprietor of the now-defunct Main Street Grill. Hed been hanging out with this bunch for eighteen or twenty years, and it had been a rude awakening when Percy and Velma packed it in last Christmas Eve, vacating a building that quickly became a discount shoe store. Currently occupying the spot where the clubs rear booth had stood was a rack of womens pumps, sizes eight to ten. Hooboy! Mule stood and saluted. Here comes our Los Angelees movie producer. Who, me? Pretty soon, youll be whippin that back in a ponytail an wearin a earring. Father Tim suddenly felt his hair flowing over his shoulders like a medieval mantle. Come on, leave im alone, said Percy. Hes livin out in th boonies, he dont have to slick up like we do. If you call that slicked up, Im a monkeys uncle. How longre you stuck out there in th sticks? asked Percy. Hal and Marge will be living in France for a year, so . . . roughly nine more months. But we dont feel stuck, we like it. I lived in th country when I was comin up, said Percy, an it like to killed me. They aint nothin but work on a farm. Haul this, fix that, hoe this, feed that. If it aint chickens, its feathers. About time you showed up, buddyroe, my fish sanwich is goin south. J.C. rooted around in his overstuffed briefcase and came up with something wrapped in recycled foil. Mule sniffed the air. How long has that thing been in there? Seven oclock this morning. Youre not goin to eat it? Why not? Th temperatures just a couple degrees above freezin. Father Tim noted that the editors aftershave should effectively mask any offensive odors within, loosely, a city block. Whatd you bring? Mule asked Percy. Last nights honey-baked pork chop on a sesame-seed roll with lettuce, mayo, and a side of chips. Man! said Mule. He expected that anybody whod owned the Grill for forty-odd years would show up with a great lunch, but nothing like this. He peered into his own paper sack. So, what is it? asked J.C., hammering down on the fish sandwich. I cant believe it. Mule appeared disconsolate. Fancys got me on some hoo-doo diet again. Why is your wife packin your lunch? Youre a big boy, pack your own bloomin lunch. Mule examined the contents of the Ziploc bag. A sweet potato, he said, devastated. With no butter. A sweet potato? Percy eyed the pathetic offering with disbelief. What kind of diet is that? Mule slumped in his chair. I cant eat a sweet potato; no way can I eat a sweet potato. I feel trembly, I had breakfast at six-thirty and now its way past twelve. Whatd she give you for breakfast? A turnip? Hard-boiled eggs. I hate hard-boiled eggs; they give me gas. So, Percy, said Father Tim, unwrapping a ham and cheese on white from the vending machine, see what you did by going out of business? Left us all high and dry. Yeah, said Mule. I was happy with things th way they were. J.C. gobbled the remaining half of his sandwich in one bite. Ah guss nobar hurrbowwissonor . . . Dont talk with your mouth full, snapped Mule, who was digging in his pockets for vending machine change. J.C. swallowed the whole affair, and knocked back a half can of Sprite. I guess you turkeys didnt hear the latest about th Witch of th North. Witch of th South, said Percy, recognizing the nickname, albeit incorrect, for his much-despised former landlord. Turns out she said her first clearly understandable word since that big crack on th head in September. Money! exclaimed Percy. What about money? Money had to be th first word out of that back-stabbin, hardhearted, penny-pinchin . . . Now, Percy, said Father Tim. J.C. glared at the assembly. Do you want to hear th dadgum story or not? Say on, commanded Father Tim. Ed Coffey was in town yesterday, haulin stuff out of her carriage house up at Clear Day to take down to her Florida place. He said that right before he left, she was sittin in her wheelchair at th window, lookin at birds, and she motioned him to come over. . . . Mule looked disgusted. If brains were dynamite, Ed Coffey wouldnt have enough to blow his nose! Then, she motioned im to come closer. . . . The Turkey Club sat forward. Ed said instead of all that word salad shed been talking, she spoke up as good as anybody. . . . Whatd she say, dadgummit? Percys pork chop was stuck in his gullet; if there was anything he disliked, it was the way some people had to be th bride at every weddin and th corpse at every funeral. Yessir, he said he was standin right there when it rolled out, slick as grease. You already told us that, you goofball. What was it she said? J.C. wiped his perspiring forehead with a wadded-up paper towel. Get off my bumper, he snapped at Percy. The Muse editor sat back in the plastic chair and looked once more at the eager assembly. She said God. God? Percy and Mule exclaimed in unison. No way! Mule shook his head. No way Edith Mallory wouldve said God, unless she was tryin to say th word that used to get my butt whipped when I was little. Right, said Percy. No way. Yes, thought Father Tim. Yes! He stopped by the grease pit where Harley Welch was lying on his back under a crew-cab truck. Harley! He squatted down and peered at his old friend. Revren, is that you? Whats left of me. Hows it going? Goin good if I can git this U joint worked offa here. Whens our boy comin home? Tomorrow. Well catch up with you in a day or two. Did you hear about the twins? Yessir, hits th big town news. Spittin image of th ol mayor, they say. He laughed. I guess Lace is coming in? Yessir, shes wrote me a time or two lately; you know she got that big scholarship. I heard. Thats wonderful! By the way, when is the last time you worked on Miss Sadies car? Oh, law, thats goin too far back fr m feeble mind. Lets see, didnt she pass in th spring? She did. I worked on it sometime before she passed, she was still drivin. I remember she rolled in here one mornin, I had to change out er clutch. Miss Sadie was bad t ride er clutch. Do you know if its still parked in the garage up at Fernbank? I dont know if hes sold it. They was some talk Mr. Gregory was goin to restore it. . . . George Gaynor worked on it a day or two, maybe. I caint hardly recall. You pushing along all right with Miss Pringle? HTlFne Pringle was the piano teacher who rented his house in Mitford, and Harley was his old buddy who lived in the basement. Lets jis say Ive heered more piana music than I ever knowed was wrote. Father Tim laughed. Come out to the sticks and see us, will you? I will, said Harley. Ill bring youuns a pan of m brownies. Ill hold you to it. Hows Miss Cynthy? Couldnt be better. He stood, hearing the creaking of his knees. Got to put the chairs in the wagon, as my grandmother used to say, and run to The Local. Regards to Miss Pringle! He walked to the truck, whistling a tune hed heard on the radio. There was nothing like a visit to Mitford to get a mans spirits up and running. He blew through the door of one of his favorite Mitford haunts, the bell jingling behind him. I love the smell of book ink in the morning! he called out, quoting Umberto Eco. Father Tim! Hope Winchester turned from the shelf where she was stocking biographies. Weve missed you! And I, you. How are you, Hope? She lifted her left hand to his gaze. Man! he said, quoting Dooley Barlowe. It was his grandmother Murphys. Scott is at a chaplains retreat this week, he gave it to me before he left. One knee or two? Two! Good fellow! He still felt a sap for having done a mere one knee with his then neighbor. He gave Hope a heartfelt hug. Felicitaciones! Mazel tov! Muchas gracias. Umm. Obrigado! They laughed easily together. He thought hed never seen the owner of Happy Endings Bookstore looking more radiant. I have a list, he said, hauling it from the breast pocket of his jacket. Your lists have helped Happy Endings stay afloat. Thank you a thousand times. Oh, my, thats a long one. Its been a long time since I came in. Tell me, how is Louise liking Mitford? Ill be right back, she said. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and called up for her sister, recently moved from their deceased mothers home place. Louise came down the stairs at once, fixing her eyes on her feet. Hope took her sister by the arm and trotted her over. Father Tim, this is my sister, Louise Winchester. With some difficulty, Louise raised her eyes and met his gaze. So happy . . . she said. Hope smiled. Louise is shy. I find shyness a very attractive characteristic. Its as scarce these days as hens teeth. He took Louises hand, finding her somehow prettier than her sister, with a mane of chestnut hair and inquisitive green eyes. Louise, were happy to have you among us, youll make a difference, I know. May God bless you to find your way here, and prosper you in all you do. He was delighted by her seemingly involuntary, albeit slight, curtsy. Father Tim wondered how you like living in Mitford. A slow flush came to her cheeks. It feels like . . . home. Louise is working wonders with our mail-order business and has organized everything from A to Z. Well done, Louise! He felt suddenly proud, as if she were one of his own. Heres Father Tims list. We have only three of the nine. Could you order the others today? Just regular shipping, he said, noting that Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, was giving his pant legs a good coating of fur. Im about to be covered up, and not much time to read. Pleased to meet . . . said Louise. By George, she did it again! If push came to shove, Emma Newland could get a curtsy demo right here on Main Street. Any plans? he asked Hope. Wed like to talk with you about that; were thinking October, when the leaves change. Would you marry us, Father? I will! he vowed. Though we attend Lords Chapel, were hoping to find a little mountain church somewhere. Something . . . She hesitated, thoughtful. Something soulful and charming? Why, yes! Completely unpretentious, with a magnificent view? Thats it! Ill put my mind to it, he said. He told her about the hospital staff that was blown away by its patients delivery of a second set of twins; how the boys looked strong, healthy, and uncommonly like their paternal great-grandmother and Mitfords former mayor, Esther Cunningham; how Louella had apprised him of nine thousand dollars that she thought was hidden in Miss Sadies car, and that so far, he had no clue what to do about it. He reported that the snow on the roads was freezing fast; that Edith Mallory had spoken an intelligible, not to mention extraordinary, word for the first time since her grave head injury seven months ago; that J.C. Hogan was wearing aftershave again, for whatever this piece of news was worth; that Avis had given him a considerable bit of advice about perfecting oven fries; that Hope Winchester had an engagement ring and wanted him to marry them; that Louise Winchester promised to be a fine addition to Mitford; and last but certainly not least, that hed seen a crocus blooming in the snow, hallelujah. He was positively exhausted from the whole deal, both the doing of it and the talking about it; he felt as if hed trekked to another planet and back again. Good heavens, said his wife, Im worn out just listening. And how had her day gone? Joyce Havner had called in sick. Violet, the aging model for the cat books his wife was famous for writing and illustrating, had brought a dead mouse into the kitchen. A pot of soup had boiled over on the stove while she did the watercolor sketch of Violet gazing out the window. She had handed off the sketch to the UPS driver at one oclock sharp; it was on its way to her editor in New York. Olivia Harper had called, and Lace was arriving from UVA tomorrow. Thats it? he asked. Dont get high and mighty with me, Reverend, just because youve gone to the big city and bagged all the news, and your wife stayed home, barefoot. He laughed. Missed you. Missed you back, she said, laughing with him. In the farmhouse library, an e-mail from Father Tims former secretary, Emma Newland, joined the queue. They had prayed their Lenten prayer, eaten their modest supper, and made the pie which would doubtless improve by an overnight repose in the refrigerator. Now, they drew close by the fire, to the sound of a lashing March wind; she with Mrs. Miniver and he with The Choice of Books, a late-nineteenth-century volume hed found in their bedroom. He was vastly relieved that shed made no more mention of his hair, what was left of it. Listen to this, Timothy. Cynthia adjusted her glasses, squinting at the fine print. Its as important to marry the right life as it is the right person. Aha! Never thought of it that way. I considered that very thing when I married you. Whether I was the right person? Whether it would be the right life, she said. And? And it is. Its perfect for me. His wife, who preferred to read dead authors, put her head down again. How dead, exactly, must they be? he had once asked. Not very dead; I usually draw the line at the thirties and forties, before the mayhem began setting in like a worm. So . . . moderately dead, I would say. He tossed a small log onto the waning fire; it hissed and spit from the light powder of snow that had blown into the wood box by the door. A shutter on the pantry window made a rattling sound that was oddly consoling. And heres something else, she said. This was the cream of marriage, this nightly turning out of the days pocketful of memories, this deft, habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one. He nodded slowly, feeling a surge of happiness. Yes, he said, meaning it. Yes! " Excerpted from Light from Heaven by Jan Karon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.