The police called Fr. Frank and told him to come quickly. Fr. Frank pulled into the driveway of a large, ocean-side home. He stepped onto the porch and saw the father sitting on the swing, face covering his hands. Fr. Frank walks up the stairs and finds the police officers in the little boy’s bedroom. The 10-year-old was dead, limp on the bed. A noose hung from the ceiling.

This afternoon I walked into Fr. Frank’s office, cluttered but cozy. I’d met Fr. Frank (with the long hair) last night at Infant Jesus church, and I wanted to learn more about what this guy’s been doing in this port town in New York. Twenty years ago, many things were going on in his life as a young priest. Seeing the little boy hang himself was only the beginning.

Halfway through our talk, Fr. Frank hopped up to answer someone at the door. The guy whispered something, and Fr. Frank smiled and shook his head. “He’s in the drug club, and he wanted to know if he could go to homecoming tonight at school. If you are in the drug club, you can’t stay out at night.” After an hour talking, we walked across the street to the Hope House. I met a young; guys who were trying to get their lives together. We went to Pax Cristi, a homeless shelter. We passed by halfway houses for people acclimating to life outside the prison walls. I was humbled.

A few hours earlier, I was having a warm cup of coffee while walking on the docks at the port. Port Jefferson is polished and perfect. You would never know that behind the art galleries, woven into the community are havens where people are given a second or third chance.

I have to leave for Centerport in a few minutes. This afternoon was such a gift to me. It really puts life in perspective. It’s time to go.