It was in July 1963 that Walt met Allen. And November when he’d lost him. Five months. Walt had just started as pastor of St. Anthony’s Anglican. He and Esther had spent nearly 13 years at St. Stephen’s. Their first home. Their first church. Where they’d left little Faith. It had been hard to leave, especially knowing the tiny grave would be an hour’s drive away now. They promised each other they’d come and visit, but he wondered. Esther would be teaching all week, and Walt worked Sundays, and he knew from experience that Saturdays had a way of filling up. He worried that the little plaque on the ground would get lost in the grass and stepped on and cracked or something. He’d lie awake worrying about that. One of the things he’d inherited from his predecessor at St. Anthony’s was a soup kitchen. St. Stephen’s hadn’t had one. It was in a small town and it didn’t seem to be necessary, but this was an actual city, and here, it was needed.