To set the scene: it’s Sunday afternoon, the last full day of my brief vacation with my parents before I start a new job, and we’re driving through the great state of Kentucky - home of Trappists, America’s only native spirit, and the first Cathedral built west of the Alleghany Mountains. I’m gleefully bound for the Jefferson Davis State Shrine, a tremendous 351 foot obelisk constucted on his birthsite, and still the 4th largest monument in the United States. And, yes, that other president was also born in Kentucky, about 100 miles north in a small log cabin.

Anyway, our route happens to intersect with the Kentucky Shaker Museum, a much touted local tourist attraction. I’m dead set against a visit - my heart pining for confederate glory - but my parents insist on pulling off the road and down a few side streets to take a look at the grounds and stretch their legs. Well, I stumble out of the car into the searing heat, and meander round a bend to read the historical signage. During the early 1800’s, it tells me, up to 550 Shakers worked and lived on these grounds. I remarked cheerily to my mother, who so loves such comments, that only women from the Northeast could have dreamt up such a stupid religion. And just as I turn to go back to the car, I see a blurry sign in the distance, with words something “of mercy” printed upon it.

Hmmmm, says I. I wonder, could these be those Fathers of Mercy, who, now that I remember, are based somewhere in Kentucky, and are so gallantly preaching the true faith in Missions across the country, and with whom I had once considered making a retreat.

Proceeding further, I saw that they were. I poked around a little bit, checking out the construction site that will soon be their new chapel, grabbing a few fliers, and visiting their current makeshift chapel. I spoke with a member, and though I was so flustered by the occasion that he probably thought me raving, I thanked him for his good work and told him of my happy surprise.

When every single moment of our lives is a miracle, the particularly long odds are still those which seem the most miraculous. For one so woefully blind as I, it is nice when God lifts the fog just a little bit.

And for those dear friends who are wondering, I did make it to the Jefferson Davis Birthplace.

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