At a farmstand in Munich, Germany, it happened again.

I was silently counting in German, trying to remember “four” while pointing to the oranges, when the man standing next to me said, “Vier oranges,” to the vendor.

I turned to him to say “Danke,” and we both did a double-take.

He was the Rev. Ken Fleck, the former pastor from St. George Catholic Church in Tinley Park, which is my hometown.

At one time I was a member of that church. More recently, I had written several stories about Fleck’s children’s garden at the church school and about his longtime friendship with a late elderly parishioner who helped maintain that garden. Fleck also spoke at my uncle’s military funeral at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery.

As coincidences go, this chance encounter in Marienplatz, likely the most c

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