Bishop J. Donald Doherty was chuckling at the large map of his diocese that covered most of his desk, its parish churches marked by bright blue crosses, the parish boundaries by dotted blue lines, their schools and the diocesan high school by (of course) little red schoolhouses, the cemeteries by bright green crosses. Near the northern edge of his fief lay a lonely blue cross, circled by him, a moment ago, in heavy black ink. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.
“Ed, you remember that strange letter from those people calling themselves Saint—what was it? Ambrose? Aquinas?” Asking for the old Mass? I’m going to give them Forty Martyrs.”
“Don, you can’t do that—er, sorry.”
“Relax, Ed. Haven’t had so much fun in years. It’s perfect.”
~ ~ ~
Double doors with glass windows led into the nave, which was carpeted in surgical green, with brown spots scattered about, some bearing fresh bits of ceiling tile. Just inside the doors stood a wide concrete birdbath, evidently a combination baptismal font and stoup, with two small birds of the same material perched on the rim. The free-standing altar directly ahead bore a festive drape of pale blue satin, richly ornamented with vines and flowers. The tabernacle of indeterminate metal with abstract dove stood on a narrow shelf beyond it, flanked by thirsty-looking ferns in green plastic trugs.
“Fern bar,” Houghton commented brightly.
~ ~ ~
Few of his parishioners had ever heard of Septuagesima, he was sure. Sometimes he thought he knew how the Irish felt when they labored to restore Gaelic, or the Israelis when they revived Hebrew as a spoken language.
~ ~ ~
In her new novel Death Comes to Wyandotte, Elizabeth Altham has given us something all too rare in modern fiction: a deeply Catholic story that shines with the triumph of grace and grit over sin and cynicism. Instead of being dark, dark, dark (as so much new writing is), the story glimmers with hope and sparkles with humor.
In its pages, we follow the assignment of Fr. Hopkins and Fr. Houghton to a hideously constructed, dying parish in the boondocks, where the bishop is counting on the Latin Mass community to fail and fall apart. But that’s not what the Lord has in mind, who uses a variety of weak, strong, and volatile instruments to accomplish His purpose, in spite of every obstruction. “The light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.”
“It is no accident that Death Comes to Wyandotte calls to mind the great work of Willa Cather, because Elizabeth Altham’s splendid writing mirrors hers. Altham’s tragicomical account of two young priests navigating the debris of a post-conciliar church is a page-turner.” —Rev. John A. Perricone
“This is a true story—or should be—about two priests who must come to grip with the dying, both natural and unnatural, of persons. Much to the chagrin of the Church leaders, the salt-of-the-earth parishioners respond heartily to the old-fashioned manners of their new clergy, and support them in the greatest trauma of all.” —Duncan Stroik, Professor of Architecture, University of Notre Dame
“Wyandotte is about life well-lived by hardworking people in a midwestern rural parish run by two blessedly agreeable, hardworking priests.... The book delightfully fills that literary gap in your bookshelf reserved for ‘restoration of spirit.’” —Priscilla Smith McCaffrey, author of Christmas Blossoms
“Like Willa Cather, Elizabeth Altham channels the beauty of the Midwest into a quietly triumphant celebration of hope and faith.” —Maggie Gallagher, Executive Director, Benedict XVI Institute
Available in hardcover, paperback, or ebook, directly from the publisher, or from any Amazon site.
