THE THIRD SUNDAY

Alistair was feeling restless. A Sunday had passed while he was in the hospital and another after arriving home. Now yet another Sunday was approaching tomorrow and he was determined the church would not be pastorless three Sundays in a row.

"It's too soon, darling," Ahnna protested. "You know it is."

"I need to be there," he said.

"You need to be well. That's what you need."

"Three is too much." He shook his head. "I need to be there."

"Everyone will understand," she continued. "Didn't they all rally for the sidewalk sale and for young Andy's jar? Not one of them will mind if there's no pastor for a third Sunday."

"I will mind."

"You are stubborn, you know."

"My grandmother was a Scot," he smiled.

"I'm not sure that's a good enough excuse to endanger your health."

"I doubt a few minutes in church will endanger it all that much."

She sighed. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I?"

"No," he smiled, "but I love you for trying."

She came and knelt beside the swivel chair he was sitting in at the rolltop desk, turning it so she could lay her head in his lap. "Just take it slow, all right? Don't overdo."

"I will." He moved his hands over her hair. "I'll be molasses on a winter day."