My best friend in grade school had an uncle named Fr. Clem, a Glenmary Missionary priest. Fr. Clem was stationed in the South, a region our pastor referred to as “No Priest Land.” Each summer, Fr. Clem would fly his Cessna plane north to visit his family. If we neighborhood kids were lucky, we’d be playing ball in his brother’s pasture when Fr. Clem’s plane would swoop low over the pitcher’s mound and land in the outfield. I’ll never forget my first flight. Crammed next to his nephews in the back seat, the rapid ascent felt like a hundred-pound bag of corn had been flung against my chest. No sooner than we leveled out, we nosed-dived a herd a Holsteins, then flew toward the reservoir where Fr. Clem tried to skim the surface of the water with the tail of the plane. From that day forward, I was determined to be a priest! In my eyes, Fr. Clem was ten-feet tall and made the Lone Ranger look like a wimp. He had been a soldier, fought in the war and was now serving in a place where the KKK still burned crosses. After years of service and a valiant life, Fr. Clem died on a beach after rescuing a Glemary brother from drowning. I entered the seminary as soon as I could and, eventually, put down stakes in a mission diocese. Like Fr Clem and countless priests before me, I’ve been privileged to serve Christ in a region where resources are few and challenges are many. The years—and miles—have flown by. Now, as a senior priest, I provide weekend assistance for an area larger than the state of West Virginia. The odometer on my two-year-old truck registers more than 83,000 miles. It keeps asking me, “When are you going to get a pilot’s license?” After years of being a pastor, I miss having a close connection with the people in the communities where I preach on the weekends. I try to weave God’s story into their stories as best I can, yet I suspect the effort, like the tail of Fr. Clem’s plane, only skims the surface. To be honest, I feel unsettled, uprooted, like a traveling salesman or a long-haul trucker. On my better days, I imagine myself as a relief pitcher. Yet, despite the misgivings, I find that I am showered with gratitude everywhere I go. After each Mass, I shake hands at the door of the church, pat children on the head and everyone calls me Father. I might live far away, but I am one of them. In addition to this, the memory of Fr. Clem spurs me on. I’ll never measure up to his example, but I am humbled and honored to have followed his lead.