In This Mountain by Jan Karon Page A

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    “Now that you don’t have to drink out of the cup every Sunday, you ought to start dippin’ your wafer, that’s what I did before I went back to bein’ a Baptist.”
    He bit his tongue.
    “I guess you heard the Methodists are gettin’ a woman preacher.”
    He didn’t like it when Emma heard news before he did, especially news from the ecclesiastical realm. It was petty of him, but…“Well, well.”
    “I’m goin’ to see if you’ve got e-mail,” she said, “then we’ll go lookin’ for Dooley’s daddy.”
    He swiveled around to his desk and began final revisions to the essay on Wordsworth’s postulations, wondering whether he’d have to endure Emma Newland’s close company even in heaven. No, surely not, as that would somehow smack of the other place….
    He tried to disclaim his excitement that she might indeed be able to trace Clyde Barlowe, right here in this room, today. He didn’t want to get excited about a shot in the dark, though his Alabama bishop had once chastised him about that very thing.
    The Right Reverend Paul Jared Sotheby had wagged his finger like a schoolmarm. “Timothy, stop this nonsense of preparing for the worst and spend your time preparing for the best!” This counsel had never been forgotten, though he was seldom able to follow it.
    Emma stared at the screen, making a light whistling noise between her teeth. Pop music wasn’t his strong point, but it sounded like the first two lines of “Delta Dawn,” repeated ad infinitum.
    “Lookit,” she said, “you’ve got mail!”
    “Really?” He leaped up and crouched over her shoulder. “Aha!” Marion Fieldwalker, his former parishioner and good friend in Whitecap Island.
    “I gave her my e-mail address, bless ’er heart, so she could keep in touch.”
    Dear Fr, will dash this off as well as am able, it is my first try at cyberspace.
    Fr Conklin has not upset us too badly. He has a fondness for parish suppers and the old hymns and is organizing a trip to the Holy Land. Sam thinks he will work out.
    Morris Love plays the organ each Sunday. We’ve never heard such a holy racket! People come from far and wide to enjoy the music & end up hearing about God’s grace which is a tidy arrangement.
    Ella Bridgewater brings dear Captain Larkin to church most
    Sundays and subs for Morris on fifth Sunday. Jeffrey Tolson is working across at the college three days and up
    Dorchester at the big dock two days. He is in church with
    Janette and the children every Sunday. Some think he will slip back into his old ways, but Sam thinks he will work out.
    We miss you greatly. Otis and Marlene had a playground built behind the church and Jean Ballenger is writing a history of St. John’s with a list of all the gravestone inscriptions, including Maude Boatwright’s “Demure at last,” which I recall was your great favorite. I will dispatch a copy as soon as the ink is dry.
    Sam has a kidney infection, we would covet your prayers. You are always in ours.
    Best love to you and dear Cynthia. When you left it was as if a candle flame had been snuffed out, but we are soldiering on.
    He straightened up, clutching his back.
    “Wait!” she said. “There’s more.”
    “My back…,” he said, feeling a creak in every joint.
    “If you weren’t too cheap to buy a printer, you wouldn’t have to read your mail hangin’ over my shoulder!”
    Blast and double blast today’s technology. He’d stood firm for years until just the other day when he’d finally sold out and let Puny teach him to work the microwave. It was a watershed moment, something he wasn’t proud of, but in the space of a few heartbeats his tepid tea was steaming. Maybe he did need to buy a printer.
    “Look,” she said. “Your pal in Mitford, England.”
    “Move it this way, there’s a glare on the screen.” He bent closer, battling the heavy scent of My Sin that rose from his secretary like a cloud off Mount Saint Helens. “The type is too small!”
    “Your