Everything about the Prayer Group irritated the pastor, Father Diotrophes. They haven't changed at all. They were overly pious. Because of their kindheartedness, he couldn’t be angry with them. But he was. Their leader wore a pectoral cross, bigger than the pope’s. He was a little deaf, so when he was told something, he just gave you that subservient, obedient smile, nod, and move on. You never knew if he understood what you said, or he understood, and decided to ignore you, or he forgot.
The others in the group, which was only about two or maybe three, were just as bad. It really was a lame little group.
He could see them now from his "watch tower" room in the rectory, trudging through the snow. They're going to hold their prayer meeting in this weather? There really is something wrong with those people.
UN belive ABLE !
Well God bless them! It is said that God takes care of drunks, old people, and fools, and they're two out of the three.
Father Diotrophes shrugged them out of his mind and went back to his book.
Gradually, a scraping noise entered his consciousness. He listened closely. "What?"
There it was, again. Clunk, Scrape. Clunk, longer Scrape. "What is that?"
Father got up out of his chair and looked out the window. There what do his wondering eyes see? It was that little lame prayer group shoveling the sidewalks to the church.