I was halfway through a fifth of Cava de Oro Extra Añejo tequila that I’d purchased as a birthday gift for Tomás. The tequila’s refined and complex notes of cinnamon, vanilla, caramel and nutmeg, with a finish of toast and maple syrup, were lost on me by about an hour into it. I did, however, have a very keen interest in its muscle- and mind-numbing 40 percent alcohol-by-volume content.

Nearing Earth’s atmosphere-escape velocity, I decide to drunk-dial longtime family friend and probably the world’s oldest living Franciscan priest, Father Grabowski. He had taken a week off from his duties at St. Aloysius Church on Washington Boulevard downtown to attend some sort of a Catholic convention in—of all places—Las Vegas.

“How much have you had?” the old priest said with a sigh. In the background I could hear whooping, hollering, clanging bells and electronically synthesized chimes.

“Well, that doesn’t sound at all like Vatican City,” I said.

“How much?” he repeated.

“More than you could handle, old man.”

“Kabul again? That little boy?”

“No,” I said. “But thanks for bringing that one up.”

My phone became my confessional: I somehow managed to ramble, stammer and burp through what my recent nightmare days had been like. My complicity in Tomás’s life-threatening injuries. The loss and harm I had visited upon the dearest of family and the closest of friends.

While I slurred my way to the edge of incoherence, someone in the background on Father Grabowski’s end yelled, “Fuckin’ A! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

I assumed whoever had yelled this was white since I have never in my adolescent or adult life heard any Black or Hispanic of any age say, “Fuckin’ A!”

“Ya know, Father,” I said, “God can be a real nasty fucker sometimes.”

Father Grabowski sighed again. “Getting mad at God for the hell men put each other through is like pissing at the moon: the only thing that’s gonna get wet is your shoes.” Then he said, “Put the bottle down, August.”

“Right.” I tossed another tequila shot down my gullet. “Done.”

“I know you’re probably too wasted to understand this,” he said patiently, “but the love of God is all about how we lose and how we take the loss. Not about pursuing and celebrating the win. I mean, come on—who needs mercy, guidance or grace when you’re shooting sevens and the house is paying four to one? The word ‘mercy’—from the Medieval Latin merced, or ‘price paid’—only applies to our darkest days, the days we’re suffocating inside our loneliness. When we’re hurt, hated and hunted. Those are the times when we most need to risk our hearts on what we know is right, full well knowing the track is muddy and the footing unsure. Those are the times we most require God’s mercy. The times we should expect—demand!—God’s grace.”