Happy Easter, all!

On one hand, you had to know I'd try to get the first bit of Easter posted in time for Easter Sunday. On the other hand, you had to have guessed that I'd drag the Easter part of the story out over more than one chapter. Here's the first piece of it. Please let me know what you think, even if you see this later! I know it's a busy weekend for lots of us.

Peter gets...quite opinionated in my hands. It's not meant as an author tract, although one reason I've always identified with the character is the way he seemed to view certain complex matters. Again, let me know if you think it's hamfisted or out-of-character.

Peter had fed the cat, packed his suitcase, showered (hot), shaved, and dressed. Here it was: the day he'd christen Kieran and then turn his own world upside down.

He stepped into the sweet morning air, locking the curate's house behind him. Would have helped if I could've told anyone.

Too late now.

"Father Clifford!"

He hadn't noticed Father Mac standing at the edge of the path.

"I hope the formal address is still all right," the older man continued. "I find I'm a bit late to the game. Seems someone went over my head."

Peter tried to catch his breath. "I owe an explanation-"

"Oh, I'm with the program now," drawled Father Mac. "Little bird hinted something might be going on, so I got in touch with the bishop. Always have felt somewhat between a rock and a hard place, working between him and you. So iconoclastic, so contrarian, both of you. How many years now of women at the foot-washing?" he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Father-"

"Easy, now. I have to get back to Cilldargan. I have time enough to walk you to church," he joked drily.

Continuing across the yard, Peter saw Kathleen arriving. She averted her eyes at the sight of the two priests.

"You look beautiful," said Ambrose, appearing behind Niamh in the bedroom mirror, startling her as she adjusted an earring.

She twirled to face him and looked down at the ice blue dress. "You like it?"

"You'd still look gorgeous in a hideous yellow sack, but yes, it's lovely." He stepped into the room and drew close to her, putting his arms around her waist and dipping his forehead to touch hers.

Her heart sped up and her voice got husky. "Do you think we have time for-"

"Ready?" came a shrill voice. Ever possessed of an instinct for shattering moments, Imelda now appeared in the door. Her jaw wobbled at the sight of her daughter-in-law. "Oh, you bought that one."

"Fits perfectly," Niamh smirked.

"New stretch fabrics. Miracle of science," Imelda spat.

Niamh squeezed her husband's fingers so hard they throbbed.

Brian pulled his Land Rover into the parking lot at St. Joseph's. He patted his breast pocket to make sure the envelope was there, and then recoiled as if he'd bruised a pectoral.

So much for that Hinterlands holiday, he thought. Then he had a warmer thought:

If it'll shut Imelda up, I'll do it again every Easter until the boy moves out.

It was official. Kieran Egan was a baptised Catholic. He'd been tranquil and happy throughout the service, nothing but fondness in his eyes as Peter filled the silver scallop shell with holy water, wet the baby's head thrice, then anointed him with the chrism, blessed just days before. As Assumpta nervously took the candle, Peter took care not to beam too broadly at the sight of the glow on her face. Kieran's own smile persisted as he was presented to the applauding congregation, and as his parents and godmother and grandfather kissed him.

Granny Imelda's kiss put an abrupt stop to the baby's good mood. Niamh reached for him, but on Peter's nod of approval, Assumpta stopped her. "I'd say my duties start now," she whispered, passing the candle to Brian as she took the baby into her arms. Peter panicked for a moment, realising she was sure to miss his announcement - to be the last to know in the whole town.

Then he remembered what he had hidden in the podium.

He reached through the slit in his vestments and retrieved the sacristy key from his pocket. Assumpta took it and nodded gratefully, stroking Kieran's head to calm him as she carried him out.

Letting herself into the sacristy, she found a place to sit, and noticed a crackling noise on a shelf nearby. It was a baby monitor - though the wrong side of it if Peter was using it to police activity in here: the receiver.

Assumpta could now make out Peter's voice on the speaker, as if he had the transmitter hidden in the pulpit. Now, she realised, that's exactly what he'd done. Figuring his voice might help calm the infant (and perhaps just a little curious about the homily) she turned up the volume a few notches.

"Back in my home parish, there was a middle-aged man having trouble with his teenage son. The father went to seek a little priestly advice one day. He said, 'Father, my son refuses to darken the door of a church. He's on this big rebellious kick right now, keeps saying he's spiritual without being religious. It's doing my head in. Can you talk some sense into him, please?'

"The response was, I think, not quite what the father hoped to hear. 'I'll speak with him anytime he likes, but I'm not too terribly worried.' The father was irate at this, a priest so many years his junior taking such a cavalier approach. The father said, 'Explain yourself.' The priest said, 'Our job as the church isn't to browbeat people who think they can be spiritual without being religious. Our job is to make sure that we aren't being religious without being spiritual. That way, when those people need us, they'll feel they've something to come back to, someplace they won't be judged for drifting from the fold. That's how you stop them from becoming the sort of fundamentalist nonbelievers who declare all faith poison, who say all believers are brainwashed. That's how you prove that kind of thinking wrong.'

"The father got more and more upset. He said, 'Look, if I wanted someone half my age to pat me on the head and re-educate me in the way of the world, I'd listen to the bl-" Peter edited himself. "...To the Mormon missionaries at my door every other week.' And he stormed off, just furious, and he even told his son of the hopeless poppycock that was passing for ministry. The teenager found it all very amusing.

"Not long after that, the father learned he was very ill, and within about a year's time, he passed away. And his rebellious, messy-haired, know-it-all teenage son was devastated by this, more so because they'd never quite got eye-to-eye on things. The teenage son was so wracked with grief, he did the unthinkable: he dropped by the church one afternoon, and poured his heart out to this smart-mouthed radical priest.

"And the priest just sat, and listened, and tried to reassure him a little that his father's death wasn't the end of the story, wasn't the end of the admittedly complicated love between them. And it certainly wasn't God's punishment for sleeping through Mass week after week. The boy took some comfort in this, and little by little, he started coming to church again. The experience ultimately affected him so much, he went on to be ordained himself when he grew up.

"Lest you think I'm shining my own shoes here, I want to clarify: I was not that young, know-it-all hippie priest. His name was Father Burke. I was the teenage rebel he counselled in my hour of need.

"In recent months, I've come to find I was in danger of being what Father Burke warned about: religious but not spiritual. I've followed the rules, the covenants I made, everywhere but my heart. I've gone through the motions, and I've tried to stay a beacon even as doubt and weakness were gripping me from within. I've come to a realisation and I feel bound to bring it to light as we celebrate this most significant feast day of resurrection, renewal, and rebirth: if I am to emerge with my faith intact, I must make a big, big sacrifice."

Assumpta heard herself say it out loud: "What are you giving up, Peter?"

"I'm giving up the priesthood."

Back in the church, he couldn't bear to look over the congregation right now. If he had, he'd have seen a lot of solemn faces nodding at what they suspected was coming for some time now, and a few different varieties of relief and surprise intermixed among them. Padraig put an arm around his son. Siobhan was startled to feel Brendan squeeze her hand. Niamh gave Ambrose a look that simply said, "See?" Ambrose stared back, slowly nodding yes. The two grandparents exchanged expressions of pure shock.

In the sacristy, Assumpta's heart was pounding so hard, she feared it would wake the baby in her arms. She stared at the baby monitor speaker, mouth agape.

Peter's voice started streaming out again, wavering just a little. "I've spoken with the bishop, and we've agreed that Kieran Egan's christening would be a good last act in this role, a way to leave a legacy that might grow into something greater. Bishop Costello will work with Father Mac to find an interim priest, and the diocese has begun its search for a new official curate. I'm not to participate in that search, but members of the parish are invited to contact the bishop or the parish priest with any concerns or suggestions."

Assumpta felt tears beginning to streak her face. She tried to stop them with her sleeve before they reached Kieran's head. "You've had enough poured on you today, haven't you?" she sniffled.

"Some of you may now be thinking, 'If he loves us so much, why's he leaving?' The answer is, I hope not to be. I intend to remain a resident of Ballykissangel and find meaningful work outside the clergy. But you deserve a priest who can trust in miracles, who can concentrate on his work, who can be religious and spiritual and a leader. I had to give up one of those to spare the other two. St. Joseph's deserves a rebirth, a resurrection, a renewal, a true Easter.

"You mean the world to me." He had written it "all of you mean the world," but as he spoke the words he had exactly one person in mind.

Back in the sacristy, she heard it.