When I returned home, I found Bonnie wrapped up in her favorite blanket on the living room couch with about a third of the bottle of liqueur. She was poring through one of our oldest family photo albums. I made a pot of tea and joined her, my entrance perfectly timed to appreciate her soft sigh of wonder at one of our favorite images of all time. It is of Nathaniel, our first baby boy, asleep on my chest on another Sunday afternoon. His scrunched up newborn face is slack with utter contentment, his drool pools on my freshly starched shirt. In unison, we quote the doctor’s first words when Nathaniel James Wheeler came into this world.

      “What a handsome boy!”

      We flipped the page and there he is again, sitting on top of his first bicycle, the one with a yellow seat shaped like a banana. And there he is at his high school graduation, wearing that funny-looking square hat, a noticeable redness on his neck from that morning’s razor burn. Nathaniel paused on stage after receiving his diploma and turned to face the audience. He refrained from show-boating unlike some of the other graduates who made outlandish gestures for shock effect or applause. I admire the way my son savored the moment.

      Having zoomed through his life, I fetched the twin album that bore the images of our second child. Bonnie in the hospital bed, smiling wearily. We heard that the second one was easier, but she labored twice as long. From the day he was born, Philip has had a full head of dark hair like his mother. Her green eyes, too. In the next picture, our new baby lies on the couch beside his brother and Nathaniel’s mouth hangs open wide as if in amazement. Yet another of both boys, each wearing a Pirates baseball cap. Pittsburgh has always been our team. Squinting at this fading photo, I can barely distinguish a white blur suspended between Nathaniel’s empty hand and Philip’s outstretched glove. They were five and three because that was our first spring at Talmage Moravian. The sanctuary is visible behind them, which was true for most of their lives.

      Now that both are in college, Philip no longer attends church and Nathaniel volunteers with a ministry for high school students. I believe my sons share many of the same ideological commitments; yet they have increasingly crossed swords, clashing during heated dinner conversations and angry phone calls. Sometimes I tell Bonnie this is just another phase, which they will grow out of soon enough like bed-wetting or smoking marijuana. Sometimes I even believe myself.

      I do not believe I have been helpful in these matters of dispute. I am prone to defend Nathaniel’s position, which is often in defense of the church, specifically, and the way they were raised, implicitly.

      It helps to remember one late summer evening when the boys were in high school and the three of us were fishing in the little pond behind the church. There are no pictures, but I can clearly remember how the weather was unusually cool, not the least bit humid, and how the reds and oranges and pinks of the setting sun were like streaks of paint across the surface of the water’s canvas. But the language of both boys was like ugly graffiti scrawled across a moral landscape. I forget what they were arguing about. I only know that my offspring ignored my plea for peace and quiet, completely impervious to my stated desire. This only made me madder, naturally. But Philip suddenly let out a whoop of excitement. His pole was being pulled out of his hands.

      Part of me hoped the catch would turn out to be an old boot or something—a mirage instead of miracle. Despite myself, I shared their excitement as Philip reeled and pulled, fighting whatever it was for all it was worth. As much as we fished, we rarely caught anything. Both boys followed in their father’s footsteps in this regard. Philip finally reeled the fish over to where we were standing on the bank. With a dramatic tug, he pulled it up and out of the water. I watched the squiggly silver projectile sail through the air and land with a thump on the bank, right in the middle of all three of us.

      “Wow! Look at that! Amazing!”

      They had forgotten their age and how nothing was supposed to impress them. And I had to admit this catch was worthy of exclamation. This is no fisherman’s tale: it weighed at least eight, maybe ten pounds and upon closer inspection was covered in bright colors cascading down both its sides. As it flipped and flopped on the green grass, the fish blurred bright like a kaleidoscope. For a few moments, we all watched in silence.

      “Let’s throw it back,” Nathaniel declared. For once, Philip nodded in agreement. Both of them bent down together, working in concert, as Philip held the fish still while Nathaniel eased the hook from its mouth, careful to minimize the damage. He nodded at his brother. Four hands lifted the catch and lowered it back into the pond.

      Bonnie would have appreciated that memory. But slightly buzzed and full of her crepes Suzette, she had drifted off to sleep on the couch. After gently transferring her head from my shoulder to a pillow, I decided to drive to the Pleasant Shade Senior Living Community and offer Communion to those who could not attend this morning’s service. Sunday is Sunday, anniversary or not.

      Entering the lobby, I noticed an elderly resident slumped in a wingback chair. I assumed he was asleep, his eyes hidden underneath his American flag ball cap, until he jerked his cane toward my Communion set.

      “Son, what the hell you got in there?”

      I showed him, opening the dark red box emblazoned with a silver cross.

      “You let me get some for myself!”

      I smiled through gritted teeth. There are a number of Moravians living at Pleasant Shade, and I was in a hurry to serve all of them and return home. But who was I to refuse anyone Communion, even a rude old man? I pulled up a chair next to him. Handing him an unleavened wafer the size and shape of a coin, I had intoned the ancient words do this in remembrance of me when he interrupted.

      “I was in the shit! The shit, I tell ya!”

      I am accustomed to parishioners taking the offering and slipping it wordlessly into their mouths, bowing their heads in solemn mastication. This strange old man kept cursing. He had another story to remember.

      Before shipping off to war, his high school sweetheart had given him a Saint Christopher necklace. “They was having carnal relations,” as his mother of now blessed memory had once put it to her nosy neighbor while her only son was still within earshot. This sweetheart was, shall we say, superstitious. She knew all about many different saints but, in particular, this Christopher—a broad-shouldered, hulking bear of a man who had been poised to cross a swiftly moving river, when a small child begged pitifully to be carried to the other side. Obligingly, Christopher put the child on his shoulders and discovered, much to his surprise, that this little boy was incredibly heavy, so unbelievably burdensome because he bore the sins of the whole world. Christopher became a saint by carrying the Christ.

      The old man told me