It was with some trepidation he came through the back door into the vestry, his several weeks' hiatus making him feel like an intruder. He half expected Miss Riri to pop out of an organ pipe and cane his shins, but Saint Christopher's appeared empty this Saturday afternoon.

"Glad you could stop by," a voice called from the open front doors. A hunched figure was seated on the stoop, silhouetted against the pinkening sky. Shep walked down the aisle and joined him.

"You're feeling better, I hope?" he asked the older man. Father Thompson nodded, patting his upper abdomen gingerly.

"Fine, fine, though I'll need a hand standing up," he chortled.

Shep liked Father Thompson. He spoke with a flat Midwestern accent that he made no attempts at concealing, even after forty years among the silver-palated Newhamptonites, and frequently brought his dachshund, Lazarus, with him to church, treating him to leftover communion wafers when he thought no one was watching. Shep looked around for the dog and spied him digging a hole under one of the beach roses.

"I like you Shep," the older man said. Shep pulled a face.

"Still?"

"Oh sure," Father Thompson replied. "I'd hate to see you leave for one silly, poor decision. I once spilled hot candle wax down Susan O'Dell's back during Eucharist, gave her a third-degree burn—if people could forgive me for that, they'll get over your hellfire bit. Just give them time."

"That was an accident, though," Shep countered. "I knew what I was saying."

"Yep, sure, but you didn't mean it." He held up a finger when Shep started to interrupt. "You thought you did. But you didn't. When you're mad at God, you feel bad. So it's easier to pretend God is mad at Claire."

Shep exhaled.

"Miss Riri told you about her, then?" he deduced.

"No, Robin called me."

This caught Shep off-guard. He knew Robin had attended Saint Christopher's during his boyhood summers, but that had been a long time ago.

"I...didn't realize you two were in touch."

"We're not, really. But Robin visited me just before he proposed to you," Father Thompson said. "Last time I'd seen him in the church was over twenty years ago, around the time he came out and left for college."

"Rob's an agnostic," Shep supplied automatically. Father Thompson chuckled.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Shep shrugged one shoulder.

"In my experience, agnostics are believers," Father Thompson said. "They're just not worshippers. It takes a tremendous amount of faith just to admit there could be a higher power. And it takes a lot of faith in yourself to admit you're confused—bravery too. Plenty just pretend and hope the doubt goes away."

"I think that confusion must be agony," Shep answered after a pause. Father Thompson made an equivocal gesture.

"Yes, perhaps, but in some ways the doubters may be better equipped to deal with a certain kind of turmoil. They've become used to waiting it out in the belly of the beast, so to speak—made peace with their lack of peace. I mean, look at you, Shep—you've never had a crisis of faith in your life, have you? That unerring faith in God—it is a beautiful gift without parallel. But there's a fortitude that comes from weathering stormy seas alone. Think of Christ in Gethsemane—was he not made stronger for it?"

"His sacrifice was certainly made stronger for it, as with all his suffering," Shep answered somewhat mulishly. "But what're you saying? That a weak faith is better than a strong one? That I'd be better off if I doubted God every now and then?"

Father Thompson shook his head.

"I am suggesting," he said, "that the Lord blesses us all differently—we are foolish to say all doubt is pure weakness like that's that."

They sat on the steps for a few more minutes, watching the sun dip and the blue transmute to orange. Lazarus waddled over and rested his head in Shep's lap. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ears and then got up to leave, offering his arm to his companion.

"Thank you, Father," Shep said as they walked around back to the parking lot. He had two more questions for the older minister, but asked only one of them.

"What did Rob say to you, when he came to visit before he proposed?"

"Oh, just wanted to share his news, mostly. Though he did ask, 'You don't think he's too young for me, do you?'" Father Thompson said, affecting Robin's blue-blood drawl toward the end. Shep laughed for the first time in weeks.

"And your reply?"

"'Without a doubt! Marry him anyway!'"