Yesterday at around noon, I hurried from my car through a cold and windy parking lot, into the warm embrace of a restaurant called Las Palomas. I was waiting for someone. I stood in the narrow, dim entryway and looked around for something to look at while passing the time. On the wall was a framed newspaper article from last year, a lengthy obituary for the restaurant's founder and twenty-year proprietor. He'd been quite a person, apparently, serving with Mexico's diplomatic corps until sometime in the early eighties when the corruption of Mexican politics drove him to abandon his native land. He settled in Austin somewhat arbitrarily and equally as arbitrarily decided to open a restaurant. He called it Las Palomas which, according to the article, is Spanish for "The Doves." This bit of trivia, coming as it did during a time of great spiritual upheaval in my life, seemed nicely propitious; I thought about the descending dove of Mark 1:10, and smiled.

I'd never met the person I was meeting at the restaurant, and so I was a bit nervous. Barabara (not her real name) is a Methodist pastor here in town, and a very highly regarded one. My friend and mentor Teresa (also not her real name, etc.) had pointed me to Barabara as a potential candidate for the role of spiritual director in my ministry journey. I'd discussed the matter over lunch with Teresa, and we'd decided that we wanted to be friends first and that having her as a spiritual director might inhibit our friendship. So she suggested Barbara.

I wasn't sure what to expect of Barbara. In years past, she'd been one of the associate pastors at our church, presiding over the chapel services (as opposed to the much larger sanctuary; this is a large downtown church) with a presence that was something of a legend. She was known for being smart and funny and more than a little brassy. I liked her before I ever laid eyes on her. I'd spoken to her briefly a few weeks earlier when setting up the lunch, and my brain was trying to envision her based on her voice.

Oddly, she looked very much like I'd expected her to. Barbara is in her early fifties, though she looks somewhat younger; she has the kind of energy about her that is normally reserved for people in their twenties. Looking at her, you would never peg her for a minister; if you were casting for the role of an architect, she would do nicely. When my wife asked me later what movie star she most closely resembled (our preferred method of describing other people), I said, "Susan Sarandon, although she doesn't actually look like her." You know what I mean.

We sat down and made our drink order. I said, "You know, I have to admit that I'm excited to be meeting you. You're something of a legend at the church." I said "legend" with raised eyebrows and waggling fingers to demonstrate that I wasn't going to hold her to her legendary status.

She leaned in and laughed, "Oh, what a bunch of bullshit. Those people," she eyed me with mock pity, "have feet of clay. Feet of clay, I tell you."

I knew I was in the right place.

We swapped personal histories and stories about people we both knew and admired. Then I unloaded my faith journey, from atheism to faith to the call to the ministry, pouring all of this out over the course of about fifteen minutes. She listened attentively. I ended with, "And now I'm about twenty months from actually going to seminary and I'm trying to figure out what to do in the interim."

She thought for a moment, and then said, "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to come work for me at St. Marks (not the real name; you get the idea). Starting next week. We'll have you while you're in seminary and when you get out, bang--you'll have your first appointment in the bag."

"Oh, okay," I said, chuckling at her shotgun assessment of the next ten years of my life.

"Let's see," she said, talking almost to herself, "I can talk to the SPR (Staff Parish Relations Committee) on Sunday and if they agree then you can start in two weeks. Maybe five or ten hours a week at first, and then full time when you're in Seminary."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Did I hear you correctly, or did you just offer me a job?"

"Oh, yes," she said, adamantly. "I knew I was going to hire you when I talked to you on the phone. I can tell everything I need to know about someone from the sound of their voice. I wasn't going to tell you today, but it seemed like the right thing to do."

"I . . . really?"

"We've known for a while that we wanted to have a young adult ministry. We want to start a worship service aimed at young adults; something different, something unique. I want you to help design it, and someday lead it."

I was stunned. I'd come to lunch expecting to have a nice chat, maybe raise the question of having Barbara take me on as a spiritual directee. I certainly hadn't expected a job offer.

"And you're serious," I said.

"Yep. Oh, do you know anything about music?"

"Well, I've been playing guitar and singing for about half my life," I said.

"I could just reach over this table and kiss you," she said, although she refrained from actually doing so. "I knew you were the right person."

"This is so weird," I said. "Ever since I started down this road, everything's just kind of started . . . falling into place. It's like God prepared this whole life for me and I stumbled ass-backward into it without even knowing what I was doing."

"Maybe," she said, "it's because he knew that you'd never walk forward into it on your own."

"It's strange," I said. "The way God seems to weave everything together."

"I know." She leaned in again and whispered with a conspiratorial grin. "Kinda creepy sometimes, isn't it?"

Because we had taken forever to actually look at the menus and order, our food just now arrived. The enchiladas mole were unbelievably good. I ate quietly, amazed. I thought about the founder of Las Palomas, never knowing that he'd one day open a restaurant in Austin, Texas. I thought about my own life, about how different--how amazingly and wonderfully different--my life was turning out than I ever expected it to.

In the book of Genesis, the dove is God's messenger. It returns to the ark with an olive branch in its beak, informing Noah that the time of trial is over and the time of healing has begun. A symbol of peace and of benediction. A symbol of new life. New life, yes.

Amen.