I suppose you’ve figured that out by now. The estranged father, the tattoos. The bigger secret is that I was once Drew Parrish. But no longer. You see, my mother prayed. Every morning of my life my mother prayed for me. She continues to do so there on her slice of cliff in Slade, Kentucky, and I visit her when I can, which isn’t as often as I’d like with all the people in the neighborhood who rely on me in one way or another. But our connection runs deep. I truly forgave her. She’s only human. She’s weak. Her weakness just manifested itself differently from mine. Many centuries ago there lived another Augustine who eventually became a saint. Saint Augustine lived raucously before he realized, as all of us do or will someday, that Christ loved him. He wanted to spend his life following Him. Augustine’s mother was named Monica. She prayed for him too. Her prayers are credited for his conversion. What I should change my name to, when I truly decided that this story of God in which we all play one role or another was for real, was a no-brainer.
