The door opened; blinding sunlight filled Little Memphis. On the jukebox, O. V. Wright wailed on “A Nickel and a Nail.”

“Shut the damn door,” Bill Peterson shouted from a back booth.

Patrons typically welcomed strangers, but the forty-seven-year-old air conditioning unit had surrendered this morning. We were melting in the unseasonably hot September weather.

“Do not curse the door,” urged a voice out of the brilliance. “Embrace the light.”

A chill rose from the worn linoleum floor as the stranger stepped in.

She wore cutoff jeans, a black tank top, and ancient Keen hiking sandals. She removed her sweat-stained Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap, revealing a sea of freckles. Her earrings were fishhooks, and her arms were covered with sleeve tattoos. I recognized Seraphim and Cherubim cavorting with Ezekiel’s four-winged Living Creatures.

I rose from my barstool. “Buy you a beer?”

“That would be divine.” In the dim taproom light she appeared older than me, but younger than my mother. Call her fifty and change. “Dorothy told me to come.” Dorothy Gingrich ran the Grand View B & B.

Two retired dairy farmers both named William Peterson played cribbage in the corner booth while nursing pints of Spotted Cow. I’d spent a half-hour counseling them individually this morning: Bill #1 for his gambling addiction and Bill #2 for impure thoughts. They lingered because going home meant doing their chores.

Four teenagers searched the Wurlitzer 1015 Bubbler jukebox in vain for any songs on from the last three decades. The girls wanted to give dance lessons to their homecoming dates. Shawn, Colin, and Kate had been in my confirmation class. Shelby was Catholic but leaned Lutheran after dating Colin. After the dance lessons, they’d booked a timeslot with me. They had sex questions. “You’re the only adult who doesn’t bullshit us, Pastor George.”

Little Memphis had a pool table, jukebox, and two ancient Gottlieb pinball machines (a 1964 Majorettes and a 1978 Joker Poker). I ministered to these ancient toys in exchange for an occasional pint. There was a small stage, six red vinyl booths, and a dozen mismatched tables with garage sale chairs. At the hub was an ancient oak bar and Naomi’s spotless grill.

The stranger stepped up to the bar. “What’s on tap?”

Fred Briggs and Milton Pany, Rural Electric Coop linemen, stood motionless, checks in hand. Though not religious men, the stranger’s aura left them breathless.

“No Bud Light, Miller, Corona, or Coors,” Naomi warned. “Everything is locally brewed.” She pointed to the chalk board. “The Pastor is drinking the Black Bavaria from Sprecher. Fred prefers Dancing Man Hefeweizen from New Glarus; Milt favors the Reserve Scotch Ale from Lake Louie.”

“Maybe a pint of Carnal Knowledge in the Wood…?” Milt suggested.

“…from Tyranena,” his partner added. Both were shamelessly staring.

The bartender stretched her hand out. “I’m Naomi Schwass.”

“Call me Phee.” She looked again at the board. “Give me a pint of the Bedlam Belgian IPA.”

Naomi’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, I’m sorry dear, that’s tapped out.”

“Disappointing….” Phee blinked. “Could you double-check?”

Naomi started to protest.

“Humor her,” I suggested. I turned to the heavenly creature beside me. “I’m George.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Reverend Pinkerton.” When she touched my arm, my fatigue faded, my body warmed, my soul melted. I exhaled.

Naomi returned with the pint of Bedlam and a bowl of salted peanuts in the shell. “It’s like the keg is full again.”

“That happens….” Phee took a long drink from the frosty mug. “Oh–my–goodness…. She paused to savor the IPA’s hoppy bitterness. “I’d forgotten the taste of cold beer a hot summer day.”

“Obviously, you’re not from around here.” Naomi knew everyone in a hundred-mile radius, plus all the hunters, fishermen, campers, snowmobilers, and cross country skiers that came through every year. She’d been born and raised in the valley. Twenty-five years ago her husband left her for the new blonde route driver at the Farm Service Cooperative. In the divorce she gave Frank everything–the land, the farm equipment, their farmhouse, and outbuildings–for a cash settlement that allowed her to buy the bar and the three acres surrounding Little Memphis. She lived in the tidy house in back.

“So, Pastor,” Phee asked, “what are you doing on a Friday morning drinking beer?”

“It’s my day off.”

“Hardly,” Naomi huffed. “He comes for breakfast and doesn’t leave until after the Friday night fish fry. Folks from the tri-county area come for his advice, or to clear their conscience, or just to talk. He serves three tiny congregations, so he alternates when he preaches and where he has office hours, but everyone knows he’s at Little Memphis on Friday.”

“So on your one day off, you work a fourteen hour day.” Phee paused. “What does your wife think?”

Naomi grabbed my glass to refill it.

“George lost his wife and infant daughter in a boating accident,” Milt said.

“Three years ago,” Bill #2 added. The farmers approached, their empty pints poised for another round of Spotted Cow. The linemen, checks in hand, found seats at the counter, and texted their boss that they’d been delayed. The teenagers strained to get a better look, curious about her tattoos and her unruly red hair shaved off on the left side.

Phee spoke to them. “Didn’t you come to dance?”

“We did….”

“But the juke box hasn’t been updated since before I was born.”

Phee rose from the stool. “Are you sure…?” She walked to the flashing Wurlitzer and started reading titles: “‘Tell It To My Heart,’ ‘Don't Be Shy,’ ‘My Heart Goes (La Di Da),’ ‘The Place Where We Belong,’ ‘Chain My Heart.’” She pumped quarters into the machine as the kids rushed over.

“No way….”

Phee rejoined me at the bar.

“The loss of your wife and child must have been very difficult.”

“The folks around here….” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“The summer people decided he’d mourned long enough,” Fred explained. “They tried setting Pastor George up with their sisters, best friends, and distant cousins.”

Naomi handed me a fresh pint. “Then the locals pitched in. He serves three small parishes, so he already knew most everyone. Still they tried. He is so lost. People wanted to help.”

“What happened?” Phee asked, although, of course, she already knew.

“Every woman claimed to have a nice time. He was easy to talk to. A good kisser. Always a gentleman. Appreciative of their attention.” Naomi grabbed a handful of peanuts from our bowl and began cracking them. “Nobody got a second date. Those who called him back, were politely declined.”

Phee was amused. “So, Pastor, if you buy me a burger and fries, and we retreat to an unoccupied booth for privacy, I will have a good time…. And I’ll never hear from you again.” I stood mute. “Because…?”

“You’re not Alice.”

Her divine laughter filled the room. “Why on Earth would I be?” Her question brought smiles to everyone else. “No one could be, not even Alice herself.” Phee raised her voice. “If your late wife walked in that door, sat down beside you, and spent the afternoon in pleasant conversation, then gave you her number, you wouldn’t call her back either.”

“That’s not true!”

“Of course it is.” The way she said it made me turn to the door. Could she do that? Could she bring Alice back? “Have you forgotten how she infuriated you? Don’t you remember what a terrible parent she was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word gets around.” Phee looked to the crowd for affirmation. Two women from the St. Matthews sewing circle, and Sherriff’s Deputy Brennan O’Rourke had joined the group. Everyone agreed.

“Alice was a good mother,” I protested.

“She was always so nervous.”

“You did all the parenting. Everyone knew that.”

“But how did Phee know that?” the taller lineman asked.

“She isn’t from around here.”

“Not that you wouldn’t make a fine addition to the valley,” the other lineman assured her. By now he and his partner has gotten fresh pints and taken stools at the bar.

Ruth and Mary Beth from the St. Paul’s sewing circle pulled up chairs and settled in. Mary Beth pulled out a Diet Coke from her large purse and handed it to Ruth. She reached into the purse for another. They came for Naomi’s grilled cheese sandwiches. After lunch they’d corner me until I agreed to hear their litany of complaints about their husbands.

Phee pointed the menu chalked on the blackboard. “What’s good?”

“Naomi’s specialty is the cheeseburger with a white Wisconsin cheddar, baked beans, and coleslaw,” Mary Beth explained.

“She’d also got grilled cheese, brats, or burgers,” Ruth added. “Hot dogs for the kids.”

“Fried catfish with baked potato on Friday nights until Naomi runs out,” Deputy O’Rourke added, “which always happens. If you come late to the table, no fish for you.”

“I’ll take a burger, but with pepper jack instead of the cheddar, and the three bean salad,” she told Naomi. “You should check the coleslaw. It’s turned.” She pointed to an empty booth and gave me a nudge. “Let’s grab that spot before the lunch crowd.” Phee picked up her pint. “Are you coming?”

Once seated, I nursed my beer. “Alice was a good parent,” I mumbled.

“When Missy had colic, you were the one up all night.” Phee tenderly folded my hands into hers. My defenses fell. “Just because she was a poor parent, George, doesn’t mean Alice didn’t love your daughter.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “How do you know all this?”

“Phee is short for Sophia….”

“Sophia…. Wisdom…. Of course.”

“Think of me as the personification of divine knowledge.”

I’d been to seminary. I knew the concept. “You’re an angel?”

“More like a Greek goddess.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m a cross between an Earth Mother and Wonder Woman, or maybe the Holy Spirit and Helen Reddy.”

“And in heaven…?”

“I’m upper management.”

“What are you doing in Little Memphis?”

“I’ve come to call a prophet, Reverend Pinkerton, and to secure a suitable mate for the prophet’s journey, or should I call you George?”

“We’re the same person….”

“No, you are not.”

“Why come to me?”

“It’s what I do. I connect with people.” Phee looked at our almost empty glasses. I was drinking too quickly. “I’ll grab a pitcher of the Bedlam and check on our burgers. You need a trip to the men’s room.”

It didn’t take divine insight to figure that out. I’d been drinking beer all morning. “What happens after burgers?”

“We put more quarters in the jukebox.”

Later, after burgers, we helped with the dance lessons, then discussed Holsteins with the William Petersons. The mood remained spirited until the phone rang. Naomi called out, “Pastor George!” She waved the receiver from the ancient red princess phone with the twelve-foot-long curly cord. “A Pastor Dettman to speak with you. Claims you’ve been her ducking calls from the synod office.”

The Reverend Ruth Elizabeth Dettman, Assistant to the Bishop, was technically my boss. She was direct and to the point. She was in the area. “Time to face reality, Pastor. Let’s meet at the parsonage.”

I suggested Little Memphis. “There’s someone you should meet.”

After I hung up, Phee suggested that she could help with the fish fry. People from across the valley coming in to eat before the Homecoming football game in Beaver Stadium. “Let’s take a walk before Reverend Dettman arrives.”

We stepped out of the dark bar into the sun. A cool breeze dispelled the heat. “Living here, you have to work real hard to be an atheist,” I told her. I motioned to the wooded hills and pastures that surrounded Little Memphis. “The rivers and streams, lush forests, and fertile cropland make it difficult to deny the existence of a benevolent creator.”

As we walked hand in hand, all the fatigue, the sleepless nights, the anxiety for the upcoming meeting melted away with her touch. “Since I began my ministry, I’ve been surrounded by prayerful people who have comforted me.” I sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do without my parishes to sustain me.”

Phee squeezed my hand. “Every Sunday you preach forgiveness for everyone but yourself. You believe God can inflict ten plagues on Egypt, destroy Sennacherib's Army, flood the world saving only Noah’s family, part the Red Sea, and deliver Daniel from the lion’s den, but doubt that a divine being can forgive you for your wife’s untimely death?”

“I should have done more.”

“Your wife committed suicide, George. You loved and tried to save her. Sometimes that isn’t enough. Alice killed your only child and herself, you didn’t.” She laid her hands on my shoulders. I bowed my head. “I absolve you. Open your heart. Prepare to love and be loved again.”

A weight lifted. “Is this is why you came?”

“One of the reasons. I enjoy visiting places like Little Memphis, meeting people like Naomi, those teenagers, and the linemen, you know, before they’re gone….”

“Gone.” As I said the word, another vision filled the edges of my consciousness: violent weather, floods, buildings leveled by tornadic winds. “Can’t you stop these things?”

“That’s not the way it works.” Phee gave me a hip bump. “I’ve got a riddle.”

“All right.” The visions vanished.

“What’s the difference between you and God?”

“No clue.”

“God never thinks She’s you.”

I blinked. “Cute. I’ll share that one with the Assistant to the Bishop. She’ll get a good laugh.”

“No she won’t. You need to work on her sense of humor.”

When we stepped back into Little Memphis, the mood had shifted. The jukebox was silent. The linemen were gone. Of course they would return later with their wives and children for the fish fry. Of the regulars, only the Bill Petersons remained.

Seated at the bar in sober black slacks, a long-sleeved black shirt, and sensible shoes was the Assistant to the Bishop, Reverend Ruth Elizabeth Dettman. The pastor wore her clerical collar like armor. She was hunched over her phone reading text messages. Hovering nearby was Naomi who couldn’t stop wringing her hands. On the bar beside the pastor was what appeared to be an iced tea with a lemon slice.

Naomi looked startled. “George, you’re glowing!”

I stammered, “I got some sun on our walk….”

“No, George, she don’t mean you have a healthy look about you…,” said Bill #1.

“Or that your face is flushed like when you’ve been drinking with us all day…,” clarified Bill #2.”

“You’re glowing.” Naomi pointed to my imagine in the mirror. My face was surrounded in a brilliant white aura.

Pastor Dettman looked up. “What happened?”

Phee stepped up to the bar. “Think of Moses descending with the Ten Commandments, or the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain top….”

“Transfiguration?”

“It occurs when you consort with a divine being.”

I’d never seen the Bishop’s Assistant hesitate. “Divine being?” She studied Phee. “You?” The tone was accusatory.

I stepped between the two females. “Tell me Reverend Dettman ….” I stopped. I’d known her for almost three years, but I’d never called her anything but Reverend Dettman. “Do you know the difference between you and God?”

“I don’t think, Pastor Pinkerton, that this is a time for levity.”

“Answer the question.”

I waited. I was still glowing. She knew she was missing something.

“I have no idea.”

The goddess extended her hand. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Sophia, but my friends call me Phee.” When their hands touched, the assistant bishop understood.

“I’m the Reverend Ruth Elizabeth Dettman.”

“Who are you when you take off the clerical collar?”

“Friends call me Liz.”

“Well, Liz, why don’t you and I secure a pitcher of Naomi’s finest while George finds us a table.” On the jukebox Leonard Cohen sang “Hallelujah,” a song not in the selections this morning. “Take off your collar and get comfortable.”

Over beers Liz delivered the news I’d been avoiding. The three small parishes I was serving would be closed by the synod unless they agreed to merge, something the congregations had vowed never to do. “You’ll have to look for another call.” I shook my head in despair. “Spending days in a tavern,” she suggested, “hasn’t helped the problem.” Liz had been talking to Naomi.

I took a breath and plunged in. “My parishioners are territorial. If I’m at St. Albert’s, folks from St. Ambrose won’t come to see me there. If I’m working at St. Bart’s, the people from St. Alberts stay away. Little Memphis is a neutral place.”

“That’s why he spends his day off here,” Phee explained. “This is the one place in the valley where everyone is at home.”

“It’s sacred ground,” I suggested. “Since my wife’s death, I’ve struggled. But here I can take my collar off and listen. I stop shutting myself off from others.”

“On your only day off?” Liz asked.

“Honestly, the only time I feel fully human is when I’m doing shit for others.”

Liz’s armor weakened. “I feel the same way. It’s been more difficult since I started working in the Synod Office.”

“You two have more in common than you suspect.”

I ignored Phee’s comment. “Little Memphis is famous for its fish fry. This Friday will be especially hectic since it’s the night of the Homecoming football game. We’ve offered to help Naomi. Why don’t you join us?

“I need to get back….”

“You’re in no condition to drive.” I pointed to the empty pitcher on our table. “Stay and meet my flock.” Naomi appeared with a fresh pitcher.

Liz relented. “Tell me about the fish fry.”

“Every Friday night. Catfish, baked potato, and coleslaw. Most people save room for pie, which is extra,” Naomi told her. “The fish fry is my biggest source of income. Unfortunately catfish have been in short supply. I run out before everyone can be served. There are hard feeling when people have to settle for burgers.”

“If I’m working the fryer,” Phee suggested, “you won’t run out.” She motioned for Naomi to join us and poured her a beer.

Naomi took a deep drink. “I did what you said. I threw out the coleslaw and made fresh, twice the amount I sold last Friday. And I doubled the number of baked potatoes in the warmers and Styrofoam chests, but without the catfish….”

“Put what fish you have in the coolers by the fryers.” Phee rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take it from there.”

Liz and I watched the fatigue melt from Naomi’s body; her spine straightened; her face glowed. “Bill #1 agreed to take orders and bartend if I tear up the bar tab his wife doesn’t know about. Bill #2 agreed to serve folks and buss tables.”

“What will that cost you?”

“A date. Sunday night he’s taking me to La Crosse for supper at the Charmant.” She suppressed a smile.

Liz slapped her hands on the table. “All right, I’ll help.”

“You’re not dressed for it.” Naomi got up. “I’ve got a Little Memphis t-shirt in back that should fit you.”

That’s how the we came to spend the next six hours frying fish, slinging coleslaw, and splitting baked potatoes. The beer flowed, but the kegs never emptied. By 5:00 when the meal began every table was taken with a line out the door. As people ate and were filled, more arrived. The football game began. That’s when most Friday nights the crowds thinned, but instead the line grew.

People poured in from a tri-county area, drawn by an inexplicable desire to break bread with others. I split baked potatoes and slathered them with butter while Liz dipped from a bottomless tub of coleslaw. When the dirty dishes piled up, volunteers appeared to wash them. Silverware appeared in empty drawers.

The linemen, Fred Briggs and Milton Pany, arrived early with their families. After they’d eaten their fill, Fred pulled out his guitar, Milt his mandolin, and the music began. People sang along: “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” “Saint James Infirmary,” “Down By the Riverside.” Someone joined in on trumpet, another appeared with drumsticks and a plastic bucket to mark the beat. Mary Beth from the St. Matthews sewing circle sat down at the piano. “Joshua Fit de Battle of Jericho,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” “Amazing Grace.”

And when the last customer was served, hours after the usual dinner hour, Bill #1 presented Naomi with a mountain of cash and credit card receipts. The tip jar overflowed. Naomi decided to close early.

Liz helped her lock up before the pastor collapsed in a chair, wilted in a sweat-stained Little Memphis t-shirt. “So that’s how five thousand were fed.”

“It’s one way.” Much to our surprise Phee knelt before Liz, removed her shoes, and massaged her feet. The pastor closed her eyes as visions of food pantries, community meals, and meals on wheels filled her head. Her face had a brilliant white aura. Finally she spoke. “Folks spoke to me as I dished out the coleslaw. You’ve touched a lot of people, George, but the church buildings are a liability, and working three parishes isn’t sustainable.”

“What if the congregations sold their buildings and land and worshiped here?” Phee suggested. She looked as fresh as the moment she first stepped into Little Memphis.

“I’m closed on Sunday,” Naomi added. “You can could convert my barn into classrooms, meeting spaces, and an office.”

Bill #2 appeared. Naomi kissed him chastely on the cheek. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

“My pleasure. But you promised me dinner out on Sunday.”

There was an awkward silence. “Let me walk you to your car.”

And then it was just the three of us: Phee, Liz, and me.

“Now what?”

Phee rose. “I have to go. I’ve been called back, Liz, but I have a room at the local B & B you’re welcome to use. You’re not sober enough to drive, but you can walk to Grand View.”

Liz absorbed her words. “And then…?”

“Genesis Chapter 32?”

“God wrestling with Jacob….”

“Yes. That was actually me in the story. But Jacob and I weren’t wrestling….” She touched us and we saw a vision of what they were doing.

“Oh!” My heart rate rose. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know. Not since Alice….” She pressed the room key into Liz’s palm.

“What will we do when we get there?” Liz asked.

“Why not role play. Let George be Jacob. You can be God.”

“We wrestle….” In that instant, Phee was gone.