Out to Canaan by Jan Karon

she sells the bakery and moves to Tennessee—I don’t know, I’m praying about it.”
    They rounded the bend in the footpath and saw Homeless Hobbes sitting on the front step of his small, tidy house, a colorful wash hanging on the line.
    â€œLord have mercy, if it ain’t town people!” Homeless got up and limped toward them on his crutch, laughing his rasping laugh. His mute, brown-and-white spotted dog crouched by the step and snapped its jaws, but no sound escaped. Luke and Lizzie barked furiously.
    â€œHomeless!” The rector was thrilled to see his old friend, the man who’d given up a fast-lane advertising career, returned to his boyhood home, and gone back to “talkin’ like he was raised.”
    â€œI’m about half wore out lookin’ for company! I told Barkless a while ago, I said somebody’s comin’, my nose is itchin’, so I put somethin’ extra in th’ soup pot!”
    The rector embraced Homeless and handed over the bag. “For the pot. And this is Scott Murphy, the chaplain at Hope House. He works sixteen hours a day and still has time to meddle in Creek business.”
    Homeless looked at the tall, lanky chaplain approvingly. “We need meddlin’ in here,” he said.

    â€œI’d like to see th’ dozers push th’ whole caboodle off th’ bank, and good riddance!”
    Homeless had brought out two aluminum folding chairs that had seen better days, and set them up for his guests. He sat on the step, and the dogs lay panting in a patch of grass.
    â€œThey say th’ whole thing’ll be a shoppin’ center in a couple of years. Where all them trailers is parked—Wal-Mart! Where all them burned-out houses is settin’—Lowe’s Hardware! Where you could once go in and get shot in th’ head, you’ll be able t’ go in an’ get you a flush toilet.
    â€œStill an’ all, two years is a good bit of time, and you could do a good bit of work on the Creek, if you handle it right. Now, you take ol’ Absalom Greer, he come in here and preached up a storm and some folks got saved and a good many lives were turned around, but Absalom was native and he was old, and they let him be.
    â€œThey won’t take kindly to a young feller like yourself if you don’t give ’em plenty of time to warm up.
    â€œWhat I think you ought to do is come to my place on Wednesday night when I make soup for whoever shows up, and just set an’ talk an’ be patient, an’ let th’ good Lord do a work.”
    â€œI’ll be here,” said Scott.
    Homeless grinned. “I wouldn’t bring them dogs if I was you. Jack Russells are a mite fancy for my crowd.”

    â€œWe lost our dining room manager last week,” Scott said on the walk back home. “A family problem. Everybody’s been pitching in, it’s kind of a scramble.”
    â€œI like scrambles,” said the rector, who was currently living in one.

    Sometimes, a thought lodged somewhere in the back of his mind and he couldn’t get it out, like a sesame seed stuck between his teeth.
    Walking down Old Church Lane the following day, his jacket slung over his shoulder, he tried to focus on the place—was it in his brain?—that had something to tell him, some hidden thing to reveal.
    Blast! He hated this. It was like Emma’s aggravating game, Three Guesses. He couldn’t even begin to guess . . . .
    A job. Why did he think it had to do with a job?
    We lost our dining room manager last week, Scott had said.
    Yes!
    Pauline!
    Hanging on to his jacket, he started running. He could go to the office and call from there, but no, he’d run across Baxter Park, through his own backyard, and then up the hill and over to Betty Craig’s house. Why waste a minute? Jobs were scarce.
    He was panting and streaked with sweat when he hit the sidewalk in front of Betty’s trim