My sister Emy and I visited with the pastor of our local parish yesterday to hand over a wad of cash. In Japanese funerals, guests offer up money as a condolence gift, and our mother had insisted it go to charity. Her longtime church is to be one recipient, and so we take this thick envelope to Father Sakurai. He was the one who visited with my mom in hospice all these months, and the one who agreed to baptize my baby there so that Mama could be present. He is an elegant man with beautiful English and a penchant for tears.
After a teary visit in which he accepted the donation with a waist-deep bow, the priest calls us back.
“Do you have three more minutes?” he asks.
“Of course,” says my sister. We immediately sit down again for what must be serious business. I stuff a cork in my baby’s mouth to buy those three more minutes.
“I am dying,” he says, “to show you my card tricks.”