Father Malachi Baptiste slumped into the chair in his office. Henrietta had already deposited his mail into the "In" box and he Loosened his tie before grabbing the stack. The Sunday sermons were over and with some trepidation he knew that a few of the congregation would be seeking him out after the late Sunday schools with issues and problems that he had no answer to and made him wonder if God's will was his will.

In the middle of the stack below a small envelope upset the subtle balance with the bulge of wax. Malachi set the others aside and turned the richly colored envelope over to regard the source of the incongruity. A wax seal embossed with the symbol of a Phoenix stared him in the face. "God be good," he mumbled to himself, a reflex from years of bad news by envelope. Malachi's thick finger broke the wax seal and a sensation not unlike the Holy Spirit riveted up his spine.

'Father Baptiste,

Your presence is requested at the demesne of one Jeffrey Duvalle, President of the non-profit organization, The Phoenix Foundation. A casual dinner will be followed by a business proposal. Please call 065-333-4563 for directions. The appointment will be Friday, August, 21st at 8:00 pm.

The writing was elegant, and flowing, but certainly made by a masculine hand. The calligraphy style seemed old though, and Malachi almost recognized it from somewhere. The letter continued in a less formal tone.

God be with you Father. It is by the Lord's will that I hope this letter finds you well. I humbly ask that you accept my invitation and stay on to discuss a matter of great importance. The proposal I offer will allow you extend God's work in saving souls, a bit more literally perhaps, than by preaching his word alone. It is my sincere desire that you join us in our cause.

May the lord Bless you,

Jeffery Duvalle
President, The Phoenix Foundation

Malachi carefully read the letter and gently placed it on the desk in front of him. A breath in and a breath out, Malachi contemplated the invitation, the commission. His eyes followed his hand down to the lower right hand drawer of his desk and he pulled it out as far as it would go. The wheels caught in the guards and from the second to last folder, Malachi withdrew an aged sheet of paper. A paper that predated his acceptance of the Lord. A paper that had seemed blasphemous even unto this day, until the moment before he read the letter from the Phoenix Foundation. A prophesy, written by his own drug induced hand, changed from accusation to explanation in one fell stroke.

"There is still magic, the demons still roam, your part is to be the devourer. By grace you will survive, and you will lose all to see that final face. When the summons comes, darkness will turn to light and light to darkness."

Malachi placed the messages side by side and rubbed his large hands over his face and realized he was sweating. His ministry basketball towel was neatly folded into his travel pack. He retrieved it to wipe his hands and brow. Putting things carefully back in place, his self-written prophecy and the letter from the Phoenix Foundation, Father Malachi Baptiste left his office and locked the door behind him. The small prayer room down the hall was vacant and he went in and dropped to his knees.

He went to the Lord in prayer, and found for the first time in seventeen years the words were hard to find. All the same he stumbled over the words as his heart poured out in whispers and the deep bass rhythms of his voice. He would go, he knew. He would eat and laugh and listen. He would stay. Would the older training come back to him, the latin in it Vulgate form. Malachi meditated, letting the quiet presence of the Holy Spirit wash over him and the peace he had come to know washed over him. The way of the Lord was mysterious and the journey had changed again for him. Opportunity is the only providence that some need. Malachi hauled his frame back up and ducked through the prayer room door to return to his office. The bustle of the late Sunday crowd reminded him of his duties and that he was still several days before the dinner. He dialed the number to get directions and make the declaration of his RSVP.

The phone rang three times before a recording came on, the woman's voice warm and throaty, very pleasant to listen to. "Thank you for calling the Phoenix Foundation. Our offices are currently closed. Please call back during business hours, Monday to Friday." The recording stopped, there was silence a moment then the line went dead.
Father Malachi Baptiste set the phone on its rocker a little relieved and set about his business of servent to the congregation. Through men’s sanctuary basketball and a late supper with the Arminianism Study Group, he thought of the letter from the Phoenix, his old letter, the days before he found his place in the church. “Absit omen,” he muttered out loud while looking at his face in the mirror before bed.

~~~

Monday and Tuesday passed without so much as a glance at the letter. He thought little of it. The meetings of individuals and committees occupied his hours, so much so that he only saw his office once in that time period. Wednesday, before lunch he looked at the letter again, and skimmed to the text.; His chest tightened and he caught himself before slipping it back into the pile.

“No, Malachi,” he said to himself. “Though an army besiege me, I shall not fear.” He grabbed the phone and mechanically dialed the number, holding his breath through the process. The other end of the line had hardly rang when suddenly there was a voice, “Thank you for calling the Phoenix Foundation, My name is Madigan, how can I help you?”

“Huh, oh, yes. This is Father Malachi Baptiste calling in regards to an invitation I received in the mail. I was hoping to let Mr. Duvalle know that I will be attending, and to get the directions. And I think I may need to write those directions down, since a taxi will be my mode of transportation.”

Malachi pulled out a flipped open a nearby notepad and grabbed up a pen from the cup at the corner of the desk. It was tiny in his hand as most were and he clutched it like he would be jabbing the paper with it rather than coping down instructions. His eyes focused on the poster over his desk of an old headstone in the shape of a cross.

Madigan's voice was surprisingly warm, yet professional. Malachi could tell there was a smile on her face, a true one.  "Ah yes, Father Baptiste. Mr Duvalle will very happy to hear you accepted his invitation. I'd certainly be happy to provide directions however, Mr. Duvalle has made arrangements already, so you needn't worry about a cab.  We've arranged a car to pick up those who have no separate means of transportation." She bubbled on cheerily, as if she were setting up a Sunday social. " Dinner starts at eight, and it normally takes 45 minutes to reach Mr Duvalle's private estates from the center of town, ...." She paused a moment as if running some figures or doing a calculus problem in her head. "We could have the driver pick you up any time around quarte of six, and still allow enough time to pick up the others and have you at the estates in time to meet your host and prepare for dinner, would that work for you?"

"That would be very good indeed." Malachi smiled his own genuine smile knowing that it came across the phone as well as Madigan's.  "If you could have the driver pick me up at the 1st Baptist Kilbum Church on Friday at that time, that would be very good indeed.  I will make sure to bring my appetite."  Malachi chuckled and thanked Madigan before hanging up the phone and checking this off his mental list.  He spirit was lifting again and he wheeled around his office to face the small desk with his computer sitting on top.

Baptiste logged on and entered the appointment into his calendar, blocking out his time.  Friday evening already had a class in which he had volunteered to speak, but hadn't even dug out the notes from prior sessions.  He signed and cancelled his attendence on his calendar and promptly fired off an email to Brother Jake.

Brother Jake,
    The Lord has placed an opportunity in my path.  Alas, it coincided with the Angels and Demons class this Friday.  I know it is short notice but I was hooping that you could pick up my slack in this matter so I can follow this opportuniy.  I can give you my notes from prior classes or you can use the ones you've taken.  Please let me know.  If you read this before we meet tomorrow, I can get my stuff ready and email/call the class members about what's going on.

God Bless! and Thanks, Jake.

Malachi pounded his way through folder and files to locate with Talmudic difficulty the class notes.  He placed a link to them on his desktop for easy access should Jake need them.  The icon nestled in with the countless other ones that he had done the same for in the past.

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