A young man, I attended the Episcopal Church where Father Hutchins was priest. One Sunday, invited to the rectory for dinner, Mrs. Hutchins opened the door. We walked toward the kitchen and there was Father Hutchins, flat on his back on the living room floor, still wearing his collar, eyes closed, listening to Mozart on the stereo. Mrs. Hutchins told me, “Two services this morning, still chores to do and an afternoon of hospital visits ahead.” I walked quietly to the kitchen. I did not understand then about Father Hutchins the floor. But fifty years later? Now I get it.