His ability to sense unspoken despair was a job requirement for clergy, so he poured me a bowl of cold cereal and offered to take my confession. “Unless you’d prefer accompanying me to daily Mass.” He glanced at the clock on the stove. “I have to be changing into my vestments in half an hour.” “I’m all confessed out, Father.” My last confession was epic. He should know. He was there for it. “And I need to be at the station just about when you’d be saying opening prayer. What I really require is a quick class in Thinking Amish.” “Is this what brings you?” He held up the newspaper front page and I swatted the Amish article away defensively. “Yeah. I didn’t do so well covering that story.” I gave him my mother’s theory that my hot TV job got me the Amish cold shoulder. “I want to cover this murder investigation without feeling humiliated by my competition. To do that I need to convince those folks that talking to me is not flirting with the devil.” “Well, Riley, to truly understand the Amish you have to start with their religion.
