Free A Lowcountry Wedding by Mary Alice Monroe Page B

doctors found him to be in good health without resulting damage, it was generally accepted by all to be one of those rare occurrences in the medical world that could only be attributed to a miracle. The doctors said this tongue in cheek. They explained how no one knew the hidden strengths that lived in any individual.
    Atticus knew in his heart that the doctors were right the first time. It had been a miracle. Something had happened to him in those days teetering between life and death. Images, voices that he could not yet discern because his earthly experiences could not relate to what had happened to him in that other realm. It was otherworldly, outside his nomenclature to explain. Yet as he healed, he felt the nagging sensation that he’d been granted some sort of reprieve. A second chance to make his life meaningful. Atticus tried to brush off the feeling, second-guessing the experience. He was only twenty-one. He didn’t want to change his ways, to take the hand held out to him. He didn’t want to go down that path.
    Atticus sighed now as he walked the empty street, remembering the futility of his denial. He’d been pursued by the Hound of Heaven. A lost soul, racked with guilt and indecision. Peace only came to him once he’d accepted that he’d been called. The first thing he did was to accept that he had a drinking problem and begin his recovery. After he was sober, he applied and was accepted to Yale Divinity School. And he never again touched another drop of alcohol.
    Yet despite all the positive changes made in his life, Atticus still felt an emptiness inside, a deep loneliness that going outwith a girl tonight wouldn’t have filled. His mother had died a few months earlier, his father three years before her. It could be he was still mourning. But though he kept busy and loved his work, Atticus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing in his life.
    He strode at a clipped pace west on Auburn past the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial park with its brick-and-concrete plaza, arch-covered walkway, and reflecting pool. Usually he walked through the garden, but it was late and the pizza was getting cold, so he pushed on past the Ebenezer Baptist Church, where he served the congregation. At an older redbrick building near the church he rented an apartment made available at an affordable cost to him as one of the church’s young ministers. Pushing open the building door, he spied on the tiled floor a FedEx box waiting for him. He picked it up and, squinting in the dim light, made out that the package came from the law firm that had handled his mother’s estate when she’d died. He put it on top of the pizza box and climbed the stairs to the third floor, then balanced the boxes precariously while he unlocked the multiple locks on his door.
    Once inside, he set the boxes on the dining-room table, then turned to relock the door. He couldn’t be too safe in this neighborhood. He rubbed his hands together, one warm from the pizza, the other cold, and looked around the small apartment, one typical for a bachelor of limited income. The apartment had come with furniture he was sure was donated to the church. Mismatched sofa and chairs were clustered around a wobbly wood coffee table in front of the television. The electronics he’d bought for himself. He was particular when it came to audiovisual. The decor wasn’t creative, but the placewas clean and comfortable and would do until he finished his training and was assigned to a congregation permanently. He was barely in the apartment, anyway. His work kept him out all hours.
    He’d tried to make it his own, however. His mother had collected art, especially African-American art. If only by osmosis he’d learned to appreciate fine art. He’d hung a few favorite paintings from his mother’s collection. Looking at them made the place feel a bit more like home. His bike leaned against the wall by the door, his books filled several shelves, and a