Pedro's visit

So I’m sitting updating my blog and Liam comes running into the room.

“Mom, you’ve got to come. Pedro is here!”

I don’t know a Pedro. So I call him back.

“Who’s here?” I ask.

“Pedro,” he says again.

“Honey I don’t know any Pedro.” I try to explain.

“No not Pedro,” he grins. “Padre.”

The padre is here? Why?

I save my work and head to the kitchen thinking Liam is mistaken. Nope – he’s not mistaken. Sitting at the head of my table is Padre Levy, o he of the scary phone call, himself.

I’m at a loss.

I’m polite. We are Newfoundlanders after all – we’re nice if it kills us.

Small talk at its most strained is how I’d describe the visit.

He stays for about an hour. Asking questions about how I’m doing physically, about the plan if the baby comes early, about support. I respond in all the appropriate places, feeling rather like Alice when she fell down the rabbit hole.

As he departs I discover just how this visit could have been.

Apparently the Padre didn’t know that Rick was home. He just decided to “drop in.”

Now I’m all for visitors – another by-product of our heritage. A houseful of people is always welcome.

But what if Rick was still in Afghanistan?

How would his parents and I have reacted to see a Padre drive into the yard and get out of the vehicle?

Thank God he was here already.