The Angel Wore a Black Mask

On that particular morning, I was jarred awake by the phone ringing. For 22 months I had been the volunteer lay chaplain, the only chaplain, in fact, for our local hospice program.

"Things are bad at Mr. White's house. William is dying. The nurse and the family volunteer have both been there all night and need to leave now. Are you available to stay with the family?" My friend, Betty, who is the volunteer coordinator, is asking.

Soon I find myself driving slowly and carefully along the twisting roads in the hill country nestled not far from the small town in which I live. This is truly God's Country. The sounds that penetrate the silence are buzzing insects and calls of birds and animals; one passes from the sun-dappled road into dancing shadows of overhanging tree limbs, then out again, playing hide-and-seek with the star that warms our earth.

William's family is exhausted. Eldest daughter Rita, who has been up most of the night, is trying to nap on the living room couch. The two youngest daughters, Krista and Laurie, are talking quietly in the kitchen. Meg is at her father's bedside, and Catherine, William's wife, isn't here. She's probably resting in her bedroom.

Meg, I learn, has been her Dad's "boy"--the one who went fishing and hunting and learned to swing an ax in a masculine manner. This slim, attractive

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