Recently, I had a chance meeting at the airport with a 70-something-year-old priest who had been childhood friends with my college poetry professor. During his two-hour layover, we talked about a lot of things: writing; his inability to care for houseplants; my woeful ignorance of jazz; and monk and mystic Thomas Merton's famous epiphany, which, as we confirmed using Google Maps, took place just 6.2 miles from the Chili's inside the B Terminal of the Louisville International Airport.
I think through our discussion, the priest could tell I was searching for something, even if he, or even I, couldn't quite put a finger on it. At one point — after he had stooped to grab his carry-on bag, but before he took a moment to straighten his starchy collar — he reached for my hand and gave my palm a quick press.
