I woke late on April 30th feeling much recovered from my bout with Rocky’s hard-hitting Italian food. And while I still disagreed with God on many things I had to give him his due credit for labeling gluttony as one of the big-10 “bads.”
As fate would have it I had my chance later that day to pay him my respects for his good advice.
The weather had looked ugly all week and that day was supposed to be the worst. Rain, thunder, lightning — the sky was set to come crashing down. So I did the smart thing and booked a spot at Saint Trinity’s Trail of Hope Outreach, a $22 per night steepled hostel where hikers could find the holy trifecta: roof, shower, and food.
What’s the saying? “Ask and thou shalt receive?”
I arrived late morning and was ushered in hospitably by Bob, the owner. The hostel was his house and he invited me in like a long lost son.
Although I couldn’t for the life of me find a Clive Cussler or Dan Brown squeezed into the bookshelf between the imposing array of thick-spined biblical tomes, there wasn’t much else I could complain about. The shower was hot and the bed was most definitely better than what I’d grown used to. The wood floor sagged a little but I didn’t mind at all. The air circulating from room to room was warm.
Dinner that night seemed like an open, communal, whoever-needs-to-eat-can-show type thing because Bob and his wife had prepared a full buffet course that could have fed 30. I, and two other hikers, waited patiently for the 27 others to arrive, but when the door stayed closed, and our big table conspicuously empty, we nobly tucked in our napkins, lifted forks, and were soon eating fourths and fifths, all the while justifying ourselves by with the private reassurance that we were “honoring our host.”
And I thought I’d learned my lesson about gluttony. Oh well.
After dinner I found myself washing dishes in the kitchen as Mike, Trinity’s residential tormented soul, spilled his life story over his _?_ cup of late-night coffee. Listening to this guy was like listening to a rock fall down a well, except where the rock would hit bottom Mike just kept going down. I gave him my attention for a while, because I truly wanted to help, but every time I offered a positive word he would pull some new bad thing out and dump it on me. Mike, it turned out, could pull a deceased child or substance addiction out of a hat. After a while I starting listening to the water running from the tap, drifting away from then and back to —
— earlier that day when Mike, while driving the hiker crew to Walmart, and after telling our female friend quote, “I just shaved so my fave won’t scratch your legs,” and after recounting how the death of both his son and father cost him eleven hundred bucks, mentioned briefly that he’d kicked his alcohol habit with coffee. It wasn’t much when set next to his mound of troubles — a small victory in a long line of defeats — but it was bright, not dark like everything else he’s said. Despite his caffeine-fueled bouts of negativity, I still respected him for that.
Before he called it a night, the man told me how to turn off the kitchen lights four times. He then apologized unapologetically for his bad habits and slipped out through the church’s front door for a last smoke.

He’s a good enough guy. Not black, not white. Somewhere in the middle I guess.
Hell, who isn’t.
Shouldn’t curse, as I’m writing this from a church.

Nomad