I’ve a confession. Bend your ear closer to the grate, Father. (Whispered. Barely audible.) I still of dream of glory. It shames me, this longing, worse than adolescent lust. I know it’s a mirage, ignis fatuus, delusion, phantasm – it does not exist, glory – yet I strain toward it.

            How, my son?

            To speak some word too true to be unspoken. Is that a sin, Father?

            (Pause.)

            Are you there, Father? Knock, knock.

            (Another pause.) Why, this dream?

            Why?

            Look inside yourself. Is it pride prodding you, some playground determination not to let the big boys bully you? Or are you being drawn by radiance, some inexplicable sense of the divine?

            Both maybe? Carrot and stick?

            No motive is pure. We’d find that if we could confess the saints. Goodness entices, resentment harasses. Saint Francis is still pissed at his parents. He’ll show them! And does he ever. The Church kids itself – the martyrs are running from as well as to. Love of God often reads as cruelty to those we forsake. When Gauguin decamped for Tahiti, was he a deadbeat dad or instrument of the divine?

            You’re preaching. It’s just us two here. What should I do?

            What do you think you should do?

            You’re worse than my shrink. I came here for help.

            God helps those who help themselves.

            Oh, please.

            If we believe in God – and no one says we must – but if we do, we’ve got to believe in His involvement with us. If He cares, He doesn’t shipwreck us and laugh about it. He shows us the way. I no more speak for God than a traffic cop makes the laws. I help point, that’s all, maybe prevent collisions. Your destination is your business.

            So?

            So assume God’s not playing you a dirty trick. Assume He’s suffused you with this dream, as you call it. OK, now what? Accept the assignment or tune Him out? Think of life as a deal. What’s God’s ask?

            That I – I try to – do my best, I suppose, make the most of my time.

            And that’s not helpful?

            It is. But the longing hurts. Tantalus’ juicy fruit always out of reach. Sisyphus’ stone. I’m so much less than I should be!

            Should?

            Than He had in mind.

            So you curl into a corner and cry about it.

            That’s not fair. I came here.

            To cry: poor me – I’m less than I hoped, I’m not Shakespeare, it’s not fair!

            I came for guidance.

            Bullshit – pardon my French – and no I never said that. You came for God to kiss your boo-boo and make it all better. You’re disappointed in yourself? Join the club. The higher you aim, the shorter you fall. If you didn’t disappoint yourself, you didn’t dream high enough. God is not a kindergarten encourager, Carll, he’s a hard-ass coach, who pummels us to outperform. You still dream of glory? OK, assume that’s God talking. Now saddle up and get moving. You’re too old? Your horse is a nag? Poor baby. Check out Kierkegaard: “It is better to try something and fail than try nothing and succeed. The result may be the same, but you won’t be. We always grow more through defeats than victories.” That sounds to me like God speaking – through the great Dane.

            That’s your blessing?

            Your penance, if that makes you feel better. If God asks anything He asks this: Make the most of your chance. Fight in the direction of your dreams, no matter it’s a losing battle. Don’t waste your strength on Hail, Marys, throw a Hail Mary pass.

            (Silence.)

            Go in peace.