Kathleen took a deep breathe, trying to muffle her sobs. After a few minutes, the tears stopped, but the shaking did not. Charley clutched her tighter to him until she began to calm down, and as she did, she focused her attention toward the front of the church.
St. John Vianney’s altar was as striking as the outside scenery. The large cross, attached to the wall directly behind the priest, looked like intertwined tree branches. At the base of the cross were trails of ivy growing through a mound of Sedona’s red rocks, giving the cross the appearance that it was freestanding.
To the right side of the cross was a life-sized figure of Christ, complete with nail marks in the figure’s hands and feet. The design of the altar reflected Sedona’s art colony, but there was no feeling here for Kathleen of an intimacy with God.
The first half of the Mass finished and Father O’Malley began his eulogy. Kathleen placed her hat back on her head.
“Scott Buckley was the best of Sedona,” the priest said with a hint of his Irish brogue that made him such a favorite at social events frequented by Sedona’s wealthy. No one could tell a joke better than Father O’Malley. At those affairs, the lanky priest’s thick blond hair would fall forward into his eyes as he imbibed a little too much of the fine Irish whisky offered him.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish