I prayed for what I wanted most: a sign. Then I made an important addendum to my prayer. Because it was my third Sunday at church, because of my elementary understanding of the Trinity (that somehow God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit), because Peter denies Jesus three times before the cock crows, and because my boys had become big fans of the early and rentable films of the Three Stooges, I decided to make it tougher and up the ante.

I’d need three (3) signs before I’d do God’s work and indulge/ surrender to a weekend with Anna Brody. And I told God as much.

(Only an amateur churchgoer would dare challenge the Divine.)

Furthermore, I prayed: Each of these signs needs to be clear, irrefutable, near miraculous.

Imagine my surprise, then, when within the hour, the First Sign arrived.

It came after the minister finished his weekly announcements and told a rather funny joke about Jesus at the Super Bowl. The congregation was still laughing when the minister raised his arms and said, “The peace of the Lord be always with you.” I joined the others in saying, “And also with you.”

I began to greet the other parishioners around me—handshakes, a polite nod to an older couple down the row to my left—when I felt the sharp poke of a finger in my ribs. I turned upon hearing, “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

“Hello, Bea.”

She stepped up onto the pew, threw her beefy arms around my neck, and gave me a bone-crushing squeeze. I felt myself being pulled down, as if my spine might snap. She pressed her mouth to my ear and hissed, “Meet me over by the baptismal font after the service. We need to talk.”

When she finally let go, I nearly fell backward.

“And Mr. Welch?”

I must have appeared dazed. “What, Bea?”

“Peace of the Lord.”

As the rest of the congregation stood in line to greet the minister, I huddled with Bea near the baptismal font.

“What?” I asked.

“I have two matters to discuss with you. The first concerns your replacement.”

“Oh, him.”

“I always knew he was a bag of hot air. Ever since Thanksgiving, he’s been the lamest teacher. You can’t imagine it. Let me give you an example of the kind of thing we’re doing. We are memorizing dates and time lines. He’s preparing us for SATs, as if we don’t all have private coaches already. So I’ve started a petition to get him removed.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, trying to hide my pleasure with Bea’s efforts.

“Unfortunately, I’m the only one willing to sign it.”

Any momentary satisfaction I’d felt was quickly dashed.

Bea stared up at me, her fat eyes blinking slowly, and said, “Sir, don’t worry. You—we—will prevail.”

“What else? You said you had two things.”