For this priest, the ill-defined term, “retirement,” has come to mean a well-chiseled silence in which to hear the whispering of God.

I loaded up my mare and hit the road before dawn, my dog, Guapo, in the cab next to me. It had been a while since I helped work cattle. Today’s job would take me to the Lazy J. We’d wrap up by Noon and a grilled steak would be our payment. Guapo could hardly wait.

If we neighborhood kids were lucky, we’d be playing ball when Fr. Clem’s plane would swoop low over the pitcher’s mound and land in the outfield.

Sure enough, silhouetted against the wall—above a hunting bow and a bovine skull—loomed the shadow of a robed figure flanked by two wings.