Frankly, shit was falling from the sky and I was tired. If you’ve never been in Chicago late January, you have no idea what I’m talking about. And that’s fine, too. Whatever.

I bet I’ve walked past that old church 10,000 times. I walk because the buses are full of weary, sick people and most of those have miserable sick kids.

On shit days in January my umbrella is up and covered with rain, snow, ice or whatever the mayor is throwing out of his or her window at the time and telling us to like it. Chicago. I love the place, but in January it’s a chore.

Where was I? Yeah, shit and church. So the wind off the lake was mean and high, and my umbrella was turning into a weapon. For no reason I walked up the worn stone steps of the old worn porch in front of the old worn church and watched the people bustle by.

I remember feeling at the time that my life was pointless. Walk to work, walk home to the cat. Five, sometimes six days a week with just enough to pay the rent, the vet bills and dinner out alone once a week. No cable, public WIFI when I could get it and books, lots and lots of books.

“Would you like to come in?”

I bet I jumped a foot because I remember coming back down on my feet and wanting to pee. The voice was low and right next to my ear. I turned, expecting to find some priest or deacon and… nothing.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and dropped my soggy umbrella on the steps. I watched the shabby black thing tumble down the steps and wondered if some good samaritan would notice it lying there on the soggy, wet sidewalk. There I stood, looking at my umbrella. There it lay, looking as forlorn as a wet cat.

I sighed, took a step down because that old umbrella was a particular favorite of mine, but I stopped when it rose out of the wet and advanced up the stair as if held by an invisible hand. I reached out and grabbed it with a fleeting idea that I had to stop its progress. I scrambled back up the steps. Why I didn’t grab it and run for home, I don’t know.

Silence. Complete silence. Just the shuffle of feet on the wet, cold sidewalk and the sound of traffic on the street. The old stone porch in front of the old stone church was silent.

“So do you think you can make it stop sleeting until I get home?” It was a smart ass question, but I was worried about my state of mind.

“No, but you’re welcome to come inside.”

I was done. I hopped down the steps and joined the moving crowed. I didn’t stop; I didn’t raise my umbrella, and I was soaked when I got home. Hot tea, a hot bath, and a deal of pacing filled my evening.

“Father, I believe your church is haunted.”

“By what?”

“A ghost! I had an… experience on the front porch. A voice and something picked up my umbrella.”

“What did the voice say.”

“That I was welcome to come in.”

“And you are.”

“But, there was no one there. No one! I’m not crazy.”

“So there is a ghost. Maybe a lost soul in purgatory. Why don’t you stay and pray for that soul?”

“You believe me.”

“I believe in transubstantiation, walking on water, big boats and extensive floods and yes I believe you. What you tell me is common place if people would take the time to stop for a little while and reflect.”

So I stop. It’s never happened again and shit still falls from the sky and another January has come and gone but I do feel at home on those stone steps and we, whoever we are, stand and watch the people go by.