PRAY FOR OUR INTENTIONS
As dusk fell around the edges of her father-in-law’s childhood home in a small Iowa farm town, the four of them sat in beach folding chairs having long degraded into woven tatters. The close evening air brought no relief from the ninety-degree temperatures of the day. The father and son drank Mexican beers and the wife and mother-in-law uncomfortably crossed and uncrossed their bare legs. The wife looked up nervously at the perfectly still tree boughs above. Father-in-law Mitchell was holding forth, as was his wont. Mitchell’s father assembled a Craftsman home all by himself in 1936, when a man ordered a kit from the Sears Roebuck Catalogue and built it beam by beam to accommodate his wife and children. Every morning she walked by the family burial plot sectioned off in a grassy cemetery just down the street from the house: grandmothers, grandfathers, babies born too early (or too late)--all the forefathers who begat Mitchell. His father descended from a 12-year-old boy who left ...