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H. Jacob Sandigo shares reflections and photographs from his pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. From Psalm 139 The street musician, dressed in brown slacks and a white button-up, walks to the store for a pack of cigarettes. He lights one before settling into his chair. A tested ritual, the smoke seems to clear his lungs to let forth powerful and rich vocals. Anyone who has ever loved and lost or loved and sustained is named in his cantos. A hostess from across the way waves and calls out to him. I learn his name is Luis. It is clear that his pear-shaped fado guitar has been a lifelong companion: each pluck permeates the space. Luis duets with an elderly woman passing from the market, who stops to converse in song. She comes alive with each note, and youth returns to her face. Her eyes beam like an icon of a saint. The woman keeps time, clapping her hands to back up the guitar. After the encore, she hugs the singer and says goodbye, almost forgetting her groceries.  Porto Prayer Cafe A Brasileira: Lisboa, Portugal The trolley stops often, adding to the music. Brazilian troubadours pass the hat as people stop to photograph the statue of the famed poet Fernando Pessoa. The shifting of glass and silverware, the hissing of the espresso machine, and the chatter that rises and fades from each table are familiar friends. Cafes are primed for writing. I’ve sought spirit and forgotten the body, but these miles will remind me that the two are not separate but codependent. Ultimately, this is a journey from the head into the heart. The yellow arrow directs my attention to a painted St. James holding a sign that reads, Bom caminho, o apóstolo espera por você (Have a good walk, the apostle awaits you). We’ve gorged on croissants long enough. It’s time to return to our route and make it to the Albergues (Pilgrim Hostels) before sunset.  Laundry Ricardo: A Rest Stop en Route to Esposende Ricardo is a craftsman. He assembles jewelry with his wife and composes Camino-themed signs out of wood and iron. His workshop is a one-car garage. Each morning, he sets up a sign with an arrow pointing to his driveway: Pilgrims welcome. Two tables hold an assortment of goods. The quality of the items is exceptional, yet everything is humbly priced. When we arrive at his shop, Ricardo is talking with other pilgrims about how he just started selling on Etsy and was surprised at how many people across the world were interested in his art. Some of the countries, he had never even heard of. “I need my own Camino so I can go visit them!” After the pilgrims leave, there is a lull of silence until my mom starts to ask about the origins of the shop. Ricardo pauses, looks to the sky for a moment, and says, “My wife and I struggled to have children naturally, but God provides, and out of the blue we’re having our fourth child, another boy, the old-fashioned way. On my thirty-third birthday, my wife went into labor, and I was in another part of the hospital recovering from open-heart surgery. Once I found out she was pregnant, I started to work longer hours. Fly here, fly there, always busy, always stressed, never home. I employed 3,000 people and worked this way for what? To die? To miss my children growing up? Now, I live a much simpler life. This is all I need.” He motions to his wife and his home. “More than enough.” My mom shares stories about my father and laments about how difficult this year has been without him. Ricardo stands, sincerely listening, hands folded behind him, careful with his responses, not rushing to reverse the conversation back to himself. There is no cliche in his condolences. He speaks like a man who has experienced deep loss, and because of his brush with death, he has stripped himself of any attachments to what the world prescribes as happiness. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? My parents own a tax practice, and he inquires if anyone in the family is interested in taking it over and passing it on to their children. My mom says no, which makes Ricardo laugh. “Why would they when they can be hippies and travel the world?” He playfully pokes me in the side. “Just because I’m no longer a businessman doesn't mean I’m a vagabond. I try and show my children how to carve, but they aren't interested. That’s okay. They will find their own path.”  Yeshua's Call On the Road of Tomorrow The American novelist Jack Kerouac was asked in an interview why, despite being a Catholic, he’d never written about Yeshua in any of his novels. Jack paused for a moment and then responded, “All I write about is Yeshua.” The passing tides usher us onward. Taste the breeze of yesteryear, but do not get drunk on nostalgia. There are more chapters to be lived. What an existence to behold if one is attentive to the golden tulips that bloom before your very eyes: God’s mementos to those who skip the evening news and grasp at secrets sent by angels in disguise. I’m half past midnight but still too early to call in sick. There are ugly sweaters in my closet, yet I know another by name. She greets me under the tangerine sunshine and tells me pain is temporary like Achilles. Wisdom, be attentive! A brother's bond, thicker than thieves, sees me through a New Orleans flood. The jazz band hands us a purple drink and says Thelonious Monk was rather solitary; he only had time for the prayers of his piano. I remember Christmas Eve when grandma still danced and played her records. The grandkids would turn on the organ and bang out a few rotten solos, but everyone was too in love to notice that the notes were offkey. Do you remember that you were born, and the Almighty sent you a postcard that said congratulations on your first breath? The coming days will bring tears, but love is bound to see you through anything. I’m rooting for you and so are the saints who play backgammon in Bethlehem. My Lord, please overlook the fact my brother took a coffee mug for his scrapbook. He’s a man for all seasons, destined for a perfect game. We wandered into 7-11 and found a papier-mâché Gandhi beside a People magazine. We wandered into a movie theater and found no pictures. We wandered beyond the tree line and found the Little Flower of Yeshua. No search is in vain. At least you left the comfort of the couch and dared to begin. Lessons may tattoo the spirit. That’s okay. Not everyone can pass Go and collect 200 dollars. Breathe and let out all that wishes to poison you. When you are finally empty, you will be full. That is a promise no dollar-store gypsy can guarantee. Don’t look to the stars. Gaze beyond. "'Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,' says the LORD, who has compassion on you." I’m the only one awake in the hostel. After jotting this down, I’m reminded of a Bob Marley interview where he says home is in your head. You carry it, along with the people and places you adopt as occupants. My head is full of past travels and Meister Eckart quotes. Are his words attainable? “As long as anything troubles a man, he is not in the right state. To be empty of all is to be full of God.” I must decrease in order for Him to increase. God help me!  My Way My Way As we near the trailhead, we notice a bearded fellow who looks like St. Xacobeo playing the bagpipes. At his feet is a bohemian cap filled with stones and foreign money from various countries. We enjoy a song and then get to talking. His eyebrows rise when we say we are from California. I share a poem about San Francisco. To show his approval, he gifts me a handmade Franciscan cross. We’d heard the bagpipes in the distance a mile before we got to meet him. The music reminded me of my father’s celebration of life. The piper at the service had studied in Galicia, the region we were now walking through. Mid-way through the song, he had to stop and said to my mom, “The energy here... The love... It is so powerful. My apologies.” As my mother and I say goodbye to the Camino piper and continue down the road, she stops and begins to cry. “Do you hear what he is playing?” It’s “My Way,” one of my dad’s favorite songs. We had made no requests, but as a monk I know says, “There are no coincidences.” * * * An Overheard Dialogue "If you ask a priest to show you Christ and he does not hold up a mirror, then all his time at seminary was brock. Now don’t get a big head thinking you are some sort of Zeus or Hermes. You are a little g, an image of THE God. When you see a smile or look into the eyes of a tender soul, that is Christ’s very reflection. Throughout your life, there will be many instances where He says, 'Here I am.' You just gotta pay attention and cut back on these pints! Ironic words coming from an Irishman, I know. "Where was I? Back to the Man with a plan. Like St. John, we bear witness to the Light. We bear Him within us just like the Blessed Mother! Ain't that something to behold? We don’t go through the whole process as she did, but I suppose the leaving behind of our old way of livin’ and thinkin’ are birth pains all their own. My wife wouldn’t agree with that after having seven children… "Thank God for metaphor. Chapter One paints a clear picture for us simple folk: Christ is the light of all men and women. Yet He is before all creation, not some angel or demigod as some off-kilter sects would have you believe. No matter how dimmed our understanding may be. No matter if we have any inkling of comprehension of Him or not, He will be who He will be. This mystery is enough for me. Nothing other than God exists. That’s my final word. How 'bout you get this next round, aye?"  Fisherman Plunging into the Mystery The coastal villages greet visitors with towers of fish traps that serve as totems. As I walk along the shore, I notice the charming homes of fishermen. Their laundry hung out to dry, mostly work-attire coupled with children's clothing, and beautiful hand-embroidered blankets with floral designs. Most homes have tilework of the Virgin Mary or Yeshua. Interestingly, some of the homes are split in half and painted in different colors to distinguish between families. What is it like to reside by the sea and earn a living from it? Does the lifestyle ever get tiring, or is it a beloved way of life? Perhaps it's the only option for some families, with generations of fishermen passing down their homes and boats to their kin, as was the case for Sts. Peter and Andrew. Their hard work supplies the community and pilgrims with delicious seafood. There must be something satisfying in that. I'm reminded of a Van Gogh quote: "The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore." The Camino signifies that I have left the shore behind and am plunging into the mysteries of faith, life, death, and the side streets that lie in-between. I can't help but envision Vincent being content in this village. His soul would undoubtedly breathe life into the fishing rods, religious motifs adorning the boat, the striking coastline, and even a humble fisherman's boot, making them appear to encompass the entirety of the universe. With his unique eye for God's gifts and profound appreciation for nature, Van Gogh's brush would unveil the divine's presence in every aspect of his surroundings.  Tiny Pilgrim Boat Epilogue: Sts. Peter and Paul Church, San Francisco, California A drunk elder throws bread before a congregation of pigeons. The table of tourists beside the kit adds fries to the offering. It takes the action of one bold pigeon to nibble on a scrap before the others follow suit. The elder walks over to the table and says, “This scene is about as San Francisco as it gets. The city is named after Francis of Assisi you know… He loved birds, such a tender soul.” Spoken as if they’d been lifelong friends. The tourists nod and go back to biting into their burgers and scrolling through social media. Inevitably, I find myself in North Beach. Like the poets of old, my demeanor advertises this truth: I’m beat. Seeking beatitude. Sitting on the green benches of Washington Square reminds me of my trips here as a teenager. This park was my confessional booth: many a night lost in a contemplative spliff, eyes heaven-bound looking up at Saints Peter and Paul’s Church, transfixed by the golden cross and outstretched arms of Christ. Despite paying no mind to God at this time, such a ritual served as a source of comfort, a solace beyond that of my tattered notebook pages. My uncle told me a story of how the church refused to host his wedding ceremony. Despite being Catholic, he was not Italian, and therefore not welcome. This exclusion is not befitting of a church whose name translates to all-embracing or universal. For this reason, I refused to set foot in the temple out of protest. But the times they are a-changin'. The city is taking an incessant shower, and I’m no longer that boy. The weather calls for contemplation. Time to make amends. I approach the steps of the church and enter. The first thing to catch my attention is the cosmic icon of Christ above the altar, his wide-ranging hands outstretched in an embrace, the Greek symbols of alpha and omega to His left and right. Yeshua’s face is not one of judgment or scorn, but sympathy. After sitting with this icon, I get up, cross myself, and begin to walk the halls. The first statue I notice is that of Saint Roch. He was a familiar sight throughout our Camino from Portugal to Spain. Tradition says Saint Roch was born with a birthmark of a red cross on his chest. He joined the Franciscan Order and distributed his fortune among the poor. While living in Italy, he caught the plague while ministering to the sick and was expelled from the town. Ill and starving, he was saved when a hunting dog found him and brought him bread every day. He recovered and decided to devote himself to caring for the sick. Out of love for my dog Skippy, Roch was the name chosen at my confirmation. I pat the dog at his feet and say, “Hello old friend. Buen Camino.” After spending time in the votive candle area, I pause before a mosaic of St. Joseph on his deathbed. The Blessed Mother is beside him, praying over his body and saying her goodbyes while Yeshua holds his hand and looks into his eyes. Joseph doesn’t appear fearful or distraught but rather at ease. This mosaic transports me back to when I had to say goodbye to my father. Initially, our family wasn’t permitted into the hospital, but I believe my Pops was never alone. As I continue to walk with Yeshua, I see His words manifest both in my inner and outer experiences. Yeshua’s promise to us: one day we too shall enter into the fullness of Christ. "I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also" (John 14:3). Until then, we enjoy the moments present within God’s freshly inked pages. I know in my heart that at Pop’s bedside, Christ clutched his hand and comforted him just as He did Joseph. The mosaic of the Holy Family holds my attention and takes me out of time and space. I am provided a peace I cannot express. Webster has yet to collect such a word that defines this sensation. Thank you, Lord, for my father. Before exiting, I notice another mosaic of Joseph and Yeshua in the carpenter’s workshop. Joseph admires his son as he learns to use the tools of the trade. I’m reminded of the days I’d go to work with my Pops. Reading and writing served as my outlets of entertainment while he was in meetings. One day, I learned how to use the copy machine and converted a vacant office into a “printing press.” This allowed me to write short stories and hand them out to neighbors and family members at dinner parties. Pops always encouraged my writing and provided the books and typewriters that helped shape my style. Even though he didn’t understand my desire to write, he still supported me. I take my final glance at the child and hope I gave my Pops many moments like this. I feel a spiritual chill. More often than you know. H. Jacob Sandigo is a jester of Jesus from Placerville, California, who enjoys pondering our present age through a Christian lens. The decision to swap in his car for a camper van inspired him to travel the country, hike around Europe, read at the International Poetry Festival in Nicaragua, visit spiritual communities all over the world and listen to James Taylor with monks. Jacob is most appreciative for the experiences, guidance and wit that individuals share with him along the Way. You can find his work on Substack.
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 After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. What do pilgrims do when they arrive at their destination? Inspired by Psalm 134, Josh explores this question with a reflection on a recent visit to Holy Island, Northumbria, and in dialogue with three works recently published on Foreshadow: 'Asylum', a poem by Linda McCullough Moore, 'Found poem: Upon arrival at the Abbey', a poem by Erin Clark, and 'God Alone Suffices', a short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita. Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
By Sandro F. Piedrahita Ad maiorem Dei gloriam “For man, in his suffering, remains an intangible mystery.” Salvifici Doloris, Saint John Paul the Great “Cast me not off in old age, as my strength fails, forsake me not...now that I am old and gray, O God, forsake me not.” Psalm 71 For years, the old man had been tyrannized by his body. The truth is that old age had come upon him like a bulldozer, razing everything in its wake: his capacity to walk, the control of his trembling hands, the power of his once-stentorian voice. But now it was worse, much worse. He was losing even the ability to utter a simple sentence. What could be a greater trial for a man with his special, God-given mission? What personal affliction could render his papacy more useless? The old man offered his infirmities to Christ, as a means to carry His heavy Cross, and yet he still asked the Lord for healing. “If it is possible," the old man prayed, “let this cup of suffering be taken away from me. Yet your will be done, not mine.” The old man tried to assuage his deep fear by recalling the words said to Saint Paul by Jesus: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” But the old man could not ignore the horror of what was happening. Suddenly he realized that perhaps it would soon no longer be possible for him to communicate with his flock, that it would become impossible even to lead them in prayer. At first, everyone thought it was a simple case of influenza. The old man was delivering his daily Angelus address from the papal apartment window and found it very difficult to recite the prayers as he felt a sudden sense of suffocating. As the day wore on, it was clear that something was deeply wrong. The old man felt an increasing difficulty breathing and as a result could only communicate in short, slurred sentences. By the next morning, the old man was barely able to speak at all. When his chief of staff, Archbishop Sandri, told the old man he had summoned a doctor and thought perhaps the old man should go to Gemelli Hospital, the old man waved his hand in the air dismissively and said in a halting voice, “It will get better, Leonardo. It always gets better.” But then the old man suddenly pressed his hands against his chest, gasping for air. He could not understand what was happening. He tried to inhale, but it was nearly impossible. “Please, please,” the old man cried. “Please help me breathe!” When the physician called by Archbishop Sandri examined the old man, he said the old man was suffering from a dangerous throat infection and recommended immediate transfer to the hospital. He advised Archbishop Sandri that the old man’s condition was life-threatening, that he could suffocate to death. Given his deep faith, the old man took it in stride. He did not fear death. What he feared most was that his message to the masses would be silenced. Before boarding the ambulance, Archbishop Sandri asked him for his blessing. Unable to say anything, the old man blessed the archbishop in silence, using only his shaking hands. The Archbishop looked at the old man intently and said three words: “Be not afraid.” The old man, many years earlier, had penned an encyclical which he proclaimed to be a meditation on human suffering. He reflected on it as he thought of his own condition while the ambulance made its way to the hospital, as he began what would be his long Via Crucis. In Salvifici Doloris – Redemptive Suffering – the old man had explained that suffering refers to different states of the spirit – pain, sadness, disappointment, discouragement, or, at its worst, despair. He had attempted to address the persistent and nagging question of the meaning of suffering. At the time he wrote the encyclical, he had not yet experienced suffering in the flesh, other than a would-be assassin’s bullets, but thanks to the Virgin Mary he had spent no more than three weeks at the hospital that time. Yes, he had lost both his parents and had lived in a country occupied first by the Germans and then the Russians, but his own body had remained relatively unscathed. When he wrote Salvifici Doloris, he was a strong and robust man writing about long-lasting suffering, an affliction he had not experienced himself. It was only in his later years that he experienced constant suffering firsthand, when his body was ravaged by Parkinson’s disease. The symptoms emerged slowly, but as his disease progressed, he suffered tremors, rigidity, slowness of movement, and difficulty walking. He also experienced involuntary muscle movements and knew there was no cure. The ailment was not only a source of severe joint pain, but also an affront to his modesty, since the old man habitually drooled in public as a result of the disease. More than one prelate had advised him to resign the papacy rather than have his multiple infirmities on full display, but the old man had remained steadfast. “I will teach all men and women what the Cross means,” he had responded more than once. “They shall see the suffering of Christ in my own aging body, in their Pope’s public humiliation. Seeing me suffer will make their own sufferings easier. If I collapse, I collapse.” As a result of Parkinson’s disease, the trembling of his hands was so great that he found it difficult to celebrate the Eucharist or to move without a wheelchair. Soon he had difficulties with everyday tasks such as dressing, feeding, and bathing. The realization that he was a burden on others was deeply grating, and he did not like the fact that nuns had to attend to him constantly. Eventually, he let the public see him only when seated, but it was not to hide his infirmity. It was simply because he had no other option. The old man had written that suffering is something which is wider than sickness, more complex and at the same time still more rooted in humanity itself. As he sat in the back of the ambulance, he realized the prescience of his words. His suffering was not just a reaction to his difficulty breathing, to the pain in his chest. No, his suffering was mostly spiritual, the recognition that if things worsened, he would be unable to lead the Church in such trying times. The twentieth century had been defined by the actions of a few bloodthirsty tyrants – Hitler, Stalin, and Mao – but the new century had come with its own atrocities, its own harvest of death. It came with unrelenting war and the immolations of millions in the womb. Surely there was still much left to do, and that racked the mind of the old man. Perhaps he would have to resign, even though doing so would be completely inimical to his nature. Faced with challenges, his instinct had always been to plod on, placing his trust in Christ and Mary. Hadn’t he attended a secret seminary in Krakow when he was in his twenties and the Nazis occupied Poland? Hadn’t he faced down international Communism itself, not through the use of armies as Stalin had joked, but through the power of his words? It was moral suffering more than physical suffering which most tormented him as he made his way to Gemelli Hospital in the ambulance. It was the “pain of the soul,” to use the words used in his 1984 encyclical, a pain of a decidedly “spiritual nature.” When he arrived at the hospital, he was ushered to a room on the tenth floor which was especially reserved for him and asked to undress and put on a hospital gown. That is the first indignity every patient faces, having to put on a gown open at the back, such that the person’s backside cannot always be concealed. There is a certain vulnerability in nakedness, a certain embarrassment and affront to modesty. But the old man did not complain. He had been at Gemelli Hospital before as a result of complications from Parkinson’s, and he knew the routine well. Soon he was subjected to a battery of tests, many of them causing great discomfort. He was instructed to keep his mouth open for more than an hour as Doctor Renato Buzzonetti probed the old man’s throat with his physician’s lighted instruments. After that, the doctor rubbed a sterile swab over the back of the old man’s throat to get a sample of secretions, then sent the sample to a lab for testing. Then there were the tests of his cardiovascular system and a CAT scan. The old man followed his physician’s instructions to the letter, obeying the doctor blindly without fully understanding the purpose of all the interventions. The doctor prescribed a full course of antibiotics and said that the worst was behind him. But the physician was wrong. Lord, how he was wrong! The worst was not behind him. The worst was right in front of him. As he was taken on an elevator to the hospital’s fourth story, a woman recognized him. He was sitting on his wheelchair, dressed only in his hospital gown, his head hunched over such that his chin was buried in his chest, with saliva spilling from his mouth. “Oh my God!” said the woman. “It’s you, the Pope. I knew you were in the hospital but didn’t expect to see you.” The old man waved one of his trembling hands weakly in the air as a sign of salutation. Then he extended his hand close to the woman’s mouth. “He wants you to kiss his ring,” said the nun attending to the old man. “It’s the fisherman’s ring he’s wearing.” “Sure, sure,” said the woman as she pressed her lips against the ring. “Thank you, your Holiness, for such a gift.” The old man did not respond. “He’s not doing very well, is he?” the woman asked the nun. “Can he even speak? Can I ask him for his blessing?” The old man uttered a monosyllabic response. “Come.” “He’s going to bless you,” said the nun. With his hand still shaking, the old man made the sign of the cross on the woman’s forehead. He made an effort to say something else, but it was impossible. “Can I ask you for a favor?” asked the woman. “My daughter is undergoing an operation on the third floor. They have to remove a tumor. Can you please say a prayer for her, even a silent prayer?” “Name,” gurgled the old man. The woman did not understand him. “Name,” he repeated in a monotonous tone. “What?” asked the woman. “He wants you to tell him the name of your daughter,” said the nun. “He needs to know her name so he can pray for her.” “Her name is Georgina,” the woman stated. “She’s only sixteen years old. You don’t know how happy I am knowing that you will pray for her.” “You too,” mumbled the old man. He paused and then tried to sit up on his wheelchair. “You too. Pray for me.” “He wants you to say a prayer for him also,” explained the nun at his side. “I already have. The entire nation is praying for you, your Holiness. The whole world remembers you in their prayers. And I shall certainly pray a Rosary for you tonight. You’ll see. Things will get better.” “Things – things – always get better,” the old man managed to reply in a whisper. “They always do. I bless you. Pray.” Within a week, the old man appeared at the window in his room at the hospital. His doctors concluded that he was doing much better and could possibly return to the Vatican soon, even though he was still suffering from a fever. From the hospital window, the old man sent a blessing to the crowds. But try as he might, he could say no more than a few garbled words, so the message which the old man had prepared was delivered by Archbishop Sandri. The old man directed the Argentine archbishop to quote certain passages from Salvifici Doloris to the crowds assembled outside, to teach them how to be strong in the face of adversity. He also asked Archbishop Sandri to quote a brief excerpt from the book of Job, to show that suffering on earth is not a punishment, but rather something that can lead to the greater good and can join the ordinary man in the suffering of Jesus. Job was a man who had lost everything – his health, his family, his fortune – and yet kept praising God. “His suffering,” the old man had written, “is the suffering of someone who is innocent, and it must be accepted as a mystery which the individual is unable to penetrate completely.” But the Pope did not want to convey the idea that human suffering was meaningless. The message then went on to quote reassuring words from the encyclical: “Looking at Christ and following Him with patient trust, we succeed in understanding that every human form of pain contains in itself a divine promise of salvation and joy.” The old man realized that his own suffering was a powerful message to his people about the importance of the Cross. At the end of the blessing written by the old man, the text ended with his frequent admonition, “Be not afraid!” The old man then made a sign of the Cross and returned to his quarters at the hospital. Meanwhile the adoring masses outside the hospital erupted in cheers and began to pray the Te Deum together. Three days later, the old man was released from Gemelli. His bouts of asphyxiation were gone, but he still found it difficult to speak. The old man returned to the Vatican in his Mercedes-Benz popemobile, dressed in his white cassock as always, with the pallium about his shoulders, a white zucchetto on his head, the elbow-long cape known as the mozzetta over his arms, and a crucifix hanging from his neck. He regretted having used an ambulance when he first went to the hospital, thinking his condition should not be hidden from the masses. Hadn’t he preached in Saint Peter’s Square, thanking Christ and Mary for the Gospel of suffering? Hadn’t he written Salvifici Doloris, linking human suffering to the crucifixion? Why hide from the masses the mysterious fact that undeserved suffering comes also to the good? The old man had never hidden his suffering before, even accepting the scandal of drooling in public, so he saw no purpose in hiding his tribulations now. Soon the word that the old man was leaving the hospital spread, and everyone rejoiced. Crowds began to assemble along the streets leading from Gemelli Hospital to Saint Peter’s Square, many people holding rosaries and the yellow-and-white flags of the Vatican. The old man waved at the loving throngs and offered them a blessing with his shaking right hand, all the while remaining silent. At an intersection, the Mercedes-Benz stopped, and an adolescent approached the vehicle, begging the old man to say something to his people. The old man turned to Archbishop Sandri seeking reassurance, unsure if his voice would fail him. He then looked at the adolescent – the old man had always felt a special love for the youth of the world – and mumbled two simple words, “Totus tuus,” which everyone understood, as it was the old man’s mantra. “I am all yours,” the old man had said constantly throughout his papacy, expressing total devotion to Jesus through Mary. It was Mary who had saved him from the would-be assassin’s bullet in 1981, and the old man was sure it was Mary who had accompanied him on this latest test. She had helped him cope with the ever-worsening depredations of Parkinson’s disease for years and certainly would not abandon him now. In his heart of hearts, the old man had no doubt about it. In Mary he would find comfort for all of his afflictions, those of the body as well as those of the spirit. Hadn’t the Virgin Mary spared him from his greatest fear, the possibility of developing Parkinson’s-related dementia, such a common symptom among elderly victims of the disease? The old man did not want to share the fate of his onetime anti-Communist ally Ronald Reagan, whose Alzheimer’s eventually led him to forget his very name. Three days after the old man’s arrival at the Vatican, he insisted on delivering the Angelus prayer to the great crowds assembled in the enormous plaza. He knew that they were there for him, to share in his pain and celebrate his return to health, and he did not want to disappoint them. A number of his aides counseled against it, saying he was still not well enough to appear in public, saying his speech difficulties would terrorize the faithful. But the old man had never been one to be silenced, so he appeared at his apartment window overlooking the vast Saint Peter’s Square, now full of pilgrims, and he tried to deliver a simple message. However, it was not to be. He was only able to utter a few brief words before being forced to leave the rest to Archbishop Sandri, since the old man once again had the sense of suffocating as he tried to speak. And he once again recalled the words of his encyclical on suffering. The old man had written that suffering is not necessarily a punishment, but as in the case of the just man Job, sometimes suffering has the nature of a test. He also remembered the words from Maccabees: that some punishments are designed not to destroy, but to discipline and teach the people. And of course he remembered Jesus Himself, who had announced that the Cross was the only ladder to heaven. The next week the old man once again tried to deliver the Angelus message from the window of his Vatican apartment. He had read certain newspaper articles speaking of his imminent resignation and would have nothing of it. So he was ushered to the balcony in his wheelchair, a decrepit man whose movements were slow and weak and whose voice was slurred. Once again, he was only able to say a few words and bless the teeming crowds with his trembling hands before Archbishop Sandri intervened, but that was sufficient to him. He was beginning to accept that perhaps he would lose his capacity to preach forever, and he wanted to be an example to his people. No matter what the trial, no matter what the sickness, no matter the extent of the despair, he wanted to remind them now and always: Be not afraid! The old man would not resign, but he would let the Good Lord decide when his papacy would end. “Totus tuus!” he managed to say one last time before disappearing into the darkness of his apartment. “I’m all yours, my Mary!” Within a few days, the old man suffered through a full-blown crisis. He had been feeling relatively better during the afternoon, but in the early evening he began to violently convulse. “I am dying,” he cried out as he brought both hands to his chest. The pain was inexpressible, and he felt it was impossible to inhale. It was worse than all his previous crises. This time he was sure the Good Lord was calling him to Heaven, but he could barely think, such was his mounting desperation. “Please, please!” he cried out as he made a valiant effort to breathe. “Somebody help me! I need some air!” Archbishop Sandri immediately called an ambulance, and Cardinal Adrian Jaworski gave the old man the last rites, as he thought the old man was on the door of death. But the old man did not die. The doctors arrived and inserted a breathing tube into his nose. That evening the old man was able to pray the Rosary silently as he lay in his bed at the Gemelli Hospital once again. And he prayed not for himself but for the future of the Church. For the first time, the old man was certain that one way or another, his papacy would end. He prayed that the Church would thereafter find a pastor commensurate with the monumental task at hand. The Church of the twenty-first century faced multiple challenges and would need a shepherd of Christ inspired by the Holy Spirit. Within two days of his arrival at Gemelli Hospital, the old man went through a tracheotomy. He felt it was the continuation of his Passion, the next step on his ascent to Calvary. His physicians surgically created an opening through his neck into his windpipe to allow air to fill his lungs. After creating the opening in his neck, the surgeons inserted a tube through it to provide an airway and remove secretions from the lungs. After the operation, the old man could no longer breathe through his nose and mouth, but only through the tracheotomy tube. It was a further indignity, evidence that he had become a complete invalid, but he felt no rancor in his heart. He accepted everything as the will of God. He asked Archbishop Sandri to bring him a Bible and a copy of Salvifici Doloris. When he saw Doctor Buzzonetti, the old man scribbled a note on a sheet of paper with great difficulty. “You never told me this operation would render me completely mute. Had I known that, I would never have consented.” “The alternative was a slow and grueling death through suffocation,” responded the physician. “The tracheotomy was a medical necessity.” Two days after the operation, the old man once again appeared at the window of his room at Gemelli Hospital. His blessing was meant to comfort the faithful in their fears, but it had the opposite effect. It had gotten to the point where the old man was completely unable to speak. He stood at the side of Archbishop Sandri, saying nothing. His followers could not fail to realize that now he was breathing through a hole in his neck and not his nose. It was as if the old man was purposefully putting all his infirmities on display, telling them, “Be not afraid.” Soon the old man had an idea which intrigued him. Why not film his blessing from the hospital and broadcast it live on three screens at Saint Peter’s Square? He wanted to reward all the faithful who were keeping vigil for him. On the appointed day, the image of the old man at his hospital window was broadcast live in the great Vatican plaza. But the old man was disappointed, as his voice failed him again. He was once again forced to allow Archbishop Sandri to deliver most of the message he had penned for the crowds. Archbishop Sandri for the first time saw the old man express frustration at his condition. “Maybe it is better – better, aagh – for the Lord to take me,” the old man said in a tortured whisper, “as I am unable – unable – to practice my heavy pastoral duties – my duties – and don’t believe I am able to resign.” At some point, the old man decided to communicate with Archbishop Sandri in writing, as he could not say anything meaningful in his garbled speech. “Surely I am a victim soul,” the old man had written slowly, for it was hard to write with his trembling hands, “and I say that without complaint or grievance. Perhaps as with the great stigmatists of the Catholic Church, I am to suffer to expiate the sins of others. But let me tell you it is a heavy Cross, my friend. Most of the great stigmatists suffer the five wounds of Jesus sporadically. I am crucified by the relentless deterioration of my own body and suffer a daily public martyrdom. And it is getting worse, as I have lost the faculty of speech. But don’t believe I am whining. I believe in brighter days ahead. There are always better days ahead. Totus tuus!” The old man had been reading Salvifici Doloris and deriving comfort from the encyclical he had written himself. He knew that he had merely been a pencil in the hands of God while he had been writing it, that the Holy Spirit had spoken through him. He realized now more than ever that he also was the recipient of that message, the destinataire as they say in French. He pondered what he had written in the encyclical, given his recent suffering, and saw everything in a new light. “The world of suffering,” he had written, “possesses as it were its own solidarity. People who suffer become similar to one another through the analogy of their situation.” It was true that first with Parkinson’s disease and now with this new struggle, the old man could better empathize with those who suffer. He could feel a real solidarity, thinking of all those men and women with tubes in their noses whom he had been asked to bless, all those burdened with colostomy bags, all those elderly betrayed by their own bodies in a myriad of ways. In some strange and mysterious way known only to God, the old man’s pain could make him a better pastor. The encyclical tackled the first question people ask about suffering, the question of why. Why is there suffering in a world created by a God who is good? Why do so many innocents suffer to the point where they collapse? At bottom, the encyclical sought to explain the meaning of suffering at its most fundamental level. The old man had written that no one should interpret all suffering as a punishment: “It is not true that all suffering is a consequence of a fault and has the nature of a punishment.” But then what is its purpose? In Salvifici Doloris, the young pope attempted to answer the question. First and foremost, stated the encyclical, suffering happens “because it creates the possibility of rebuilding goodness in the subject who suffers.” Reading the encyclical written so long ago gave the old man a measure of solace, as it reinforced something he had believed for years: that sickness and frailty are not a penalty from God – far from it – but rather a manifestation of God’s grace, an invitation to trust God and God alone. That knowledge, thought the old man, should allow him to face his own suffering with courage and conviction. He determined that he would continue to wave to the crowds from the hospital window and bless them at the Angelus hour, even if he could not say a word. There was a holy stubbornness in his nature. Archbishop Sandri would continue to be his voice, and the Holy Spirit would continue to inspire the old man’s words as he guided his flock in this most trying of times. The old man did not question his suffering, certainly did not question his God, and yet he derived great consolation from reading the words he had written as a younger man. It was as if the strong and robust man he had once been had prepared a missive to the disabled man he would become. “Love,” he had written, “is also the fullest source of the answer to the question of the meaning of suffering. This answer has been given by God to man in the Cross of Jesus Christ.” The old man well understood what the younger man had written. Although Christ’s Cross and Resurrection do not abolish temporal suffering from human life, they nevertheless throw a new light upon every suffering: the light of salvation. There was a reason why the encyclical was titled Redemptive Suffering. In light of the promise of eternal life, what did a few months of temporal suffering mean, especially when joined with Jesus’ suffering on the Cross? What did a few years of suffering mean? What did an entire lifetime of suffering mean? Absolutely nothing. Christ had conquered the sting of suffering and death through His Crucifixion and Resurrection, promising that every earthly pain would end. “For a small moment have I forsaken thee,” said the Lord in the book of Isaiah, “but with great mercies will I gather thee.” At some point, a cleaning woman knocked on the door of the old man’s room. At the time he was being visited by Archbishop Stanislaw Dziwisz, a fellow Pole who had known the old man for decades and had even replaced him as Archbishop of Krakow. When the woman entered the room, the old man was surprised that she addressed him in Polish. “Papiez Jan Pawel,” she said. “What an honor it is to be in your presence. You are truly a giant in Poland’s quest for liberation. Had you not visited Poland in 1979, telling the people not to be afraid of their Communist masters, I am sure Poland would still be behind the Iron Curtain. I was in Poland at the time and well remember being among the three million people who welcomed you to Warsaw.” The old man made a great effort to sit up on his bed and then muttered almost in a whisper, “I am not a giant.” “You may not realize it,” replied the Polish woman, “but you are one of the towering figures of the twentieth century.” “Look at me now,” the old man managed to respond. “Sic transit gloria mundi.” And then he asked Archbishop Dziwisz for a pen and paper. He began to scribble a few notes in Polish, but the truth was that writing was almost as difficult as speaking. He found it inordinately difficult just to hold the pen in his unsteady hands. He wrote his message laboriously, writing each letter at a time with great care. With the progression of Parkinson’s disease, his handwriting had become smaller and smaller. Then he handed the note to the Archbishop, who promptly read it to the Polish woman. “I was not responsible for the fall of Communism either in Poland or anywhere else. I was merely an instrument of the Holy Spirit. And I think what led to the liberation of Poland had less to do with my visit than the fact that millions of Poles were praying the Rosary every night to Our Lady of Czestochowa.” The old man then added a few words in his gravelly voice. “They prayed to our Black Madonna.” “You’re underestimating yourself,” said the Polish woman. “Without your exhortations to the Polish people, liberty would still be no more than a dream. You told them not to be afraid of tyrants, and they listened to you.” “The victory came through Mary,” the old man said with great effort. After eighteen days at the hospital, the old man was allowed to return to the Apostolic Palace according to his wishes. There was not much more the physicians could do for him. He still had a high temperature and had not recovered his ability to speak. And yet the old man felt it was best for him to return to Saint Peter’s Square. He didn’t want to die in the hospital. He wanted to die in a place where he could sense the loving fervor of the faithful masses praying for him with all their might. Even though the doctors had said nothing about his impending death, the old man somehow knew. As he boarded the vehicle that would return him to the Vatican, the old man was sure he was close to the end of his earthly journey. And he was fully prepared for that moment. He did not face death with fear or trepidation, but with a joyful serenity. He viewed death simply as the passage from one room to another room which was infinitely better. On Easter Sunday, following the noontime Mass, the old man made an appearance at the balcony of his room facing the great plaza. He had prayed hard to be able to say Mass on such a special day, but his continuing inability to speak rendered it impossible. He wrote a brief Apostolic Blessing to be read after the Mass, but given the failure of his voice, it was read by Angelo Cardinal Sordano. The old man – silent witness to his own relentless decline – stood beside the Cardinal, trying not to look defeated. He did nothing to hide his pain from all the faithful, however, since he continued to think that his suffering – his ongoing deterioration – was imparting a message to the world. And yet how much the old man would have wanted to give his people a last goodbye, to say something to lift their spirits! But try as he might, he could not speak. He was a living example of redemptive pain. The crowd began to weep when they saw the crumbling man unable to even mutter a few words and repeatedly chanted, as if trying to give the old man courage: “Be not afraid! Be not afraid! Be not afraid!” Humbled by the cheers of all the faithful, the old man waved his hand in the air with difficulty, for he felt a heaviness in all his limbs, and he sent them his blessing with the glimmer of a smile. For some reason, everyone in the crowd knew that the old man would never be seen in public again. Nobody was able to understand his few parting words, as they were impossible to decipher. But the multitudinous crowds applauded nonetheless. Four days later, the moment came. Suddenly the old man’s whole body was in revolt against him. The monster which had begun as a throat infection had somehow morphed into an infection of the urinary tract. In turn, the urinary tract infection had led to the injury of various organs. His cardiovascular system collapsed. His kidneys were failing. His temperature reached alarming rates. His doctors spoke of multiple organ failure. It was clear to his physicians that the old man had developed septic shock as a result of the infection, and there was very little that could be done about it. At some point, the doctors inserted a feeding tube into the old man, but he declined kidney dialysis, for he thought it would be useless, and he wanted to die at the Vatican close to his people. By then, thousands of pilgrims were congregated in Saint Peter’s Square day and night in order to pray for him and stand in solidarity with him. “Totus tuus!” they cried out in unison, remembering the old man’s slogan. He wanted to go to the balcony on his wheelchair one last time but did not have the strength even to do that. He couldn’t get up from his bed, and he was shivering uncontrollably. Surely he was in the throes of death, and everyone around him knew it. On Saturday evening, the Mass for Divine Mercy Sunday was officiated in his room by Archbishop Stanislaw Dziwisz. The old man, lying on his bed with a thick pillow beneath him, collaborated in a simple manner, by raising his hand to consecrate the holy host at the appropriate time. Shortly thereafter, the Polish Archbishop delivered the last rites to the old man, rubbing holy oil on his forehead, for the Archbishop knew that the old man’s death was certain. Outside his window, the crowds of pilgrims were praying the Rosary and chanting without cease, and that gave a certain comfort to the old man, since it meant he would not enter his final journey alone. “You would not be alone anywhere,” Archbishop Dziwisz told him after the old man managed to convey his thoughts to him. “People are praying for you in every nook and corner of the planet, in every land and in every continent.” “And please give me your blessing,” the Archbishop pleaded as he kissed the old man’s hands. The old man said, “Thank you,” and blessed the Archbishop by putting both hands upon his head and muttering the briefest of prayers. “Please read the Gospel of John,” the old man whispered, and the priests at his bedside complied. When they reached a certain line, the old man asked them to repeat it. “Verily, verily, I say unto you, when you were young you girded yourself and walked wherever you wished; but when you shall be old, you shall stretch forth your hands and another shall gird you.” The old man then reclined silently on his pillow and shut his eyes. His breaths became weaker and weaker as many came to kiss him on the forehead – Cardinals from various countries, young priests studying in Italy, friends from an entire lifetime. Sister Tobiana, who had attended to him for years, and Francesco, the faithful employee in charge of keeping the old man’s quarters tidy, were also present. Finally his breath was the most silent of whispers. He opened his eyes starkly and said, “Let me go to the House of the Father.” And then he breathed no more. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) By Kinley Hartz Harmonies spark flames hit differently Bass itches my scalp Tenor scratches my nose Alto tears my lips Soprano squeezes my sinuses Just down the alley it flew Fractured me to the bone Like a phoenix up in flames Mirrors my pains up in flames Construct : Deconstruct : Reconstruct : I crave the burn The notes on my skin Compel my ears to move my mouth in song Kinley Hartz is from Denver, Colorado, and is currently a student at Azusa Pacific University, California.
From the author: This poem is intended to honour God and exhibit the tensions within music and how they coincide with the tension in our faith. By Noah Craig The silence does crawl up the side of the mountain Footfalls dampened by the lost fir needles On a trail that decreed decibels banned Random guard posts of lightning-struck trees manned By a vast army of slugs and beetles Even the sweet song of the bird melts in the sun That dares to pierce the solid canopy Tranquility has been woven and spun Into the fabric of its rocky lungs Which itch to sing a song still yet to be The arboreal steeples blanket the mossed stone-- If only they’d broadcast to the valley-- And exhort all beneath to lie down prone And to submit to the thin breeze alone And to eat but from the placid galley A perpetual lull before the crescendo-- Violins hidden within ancient stumps-- The sole era known as far as men go Yearning for time’s burden to relent so The peak may join in chorus with the trumps Noah J Craig is an author and a poet who hopes that his words will glorify the ultimate Author. Originally from New England, he currently lives in Henderson, Nevada. If he’s not writing, reading or drinking coffee, he is most likely halfway up a mountain wishing he had more storage space on his camera. You can visit him online at noahjcraig.com.
Noah's other work on Foreshadow: Strength (Poetry, March 2023) By Linda McCullough Moore Not everybody gets to where they’re going in an ambulance. I walked to this asylum. Strolled. Ambled. Carrying a book of figures, numbers to subtract and add or icons, metaphors, —take that how you will—a sandwich, no worse for the wear (lettuce more forgiving than we credit). I had come to stroll the grounds, elude the dogs, not stay in any year-long way. Not be committed, as they say in the prisoner-taking business. I had come to look around, not scratch some new Tozer’s ear. Tozer: the shiver dog I put in the refrigerator when he was two and I was four and we were hardly friends at all, or certainly not after his refrigeration. That’s how it goes. There is one little falling out, some miniature misunderstanding; a gunshot wound, and no one’s interested in your side of the story. So. I had come to pat the heads of animals with shorter memories, longer tails, owners on leashes with a button you can push to draw them closer to the dog. I had not come to the asylum for asylum. There are drugs for that with side effects to change not just your mind but your religion. If I had thought to go somewhere with any fixed intention, well, I would have traveled in a time machine to southern France in 1640, to a nunnery with sixteen-inch stone walls and nuns made out of harder stuff than that, and had them put me in a room, spare, clean beyond all reason, a cross above the bed with starched white sheets and lavender and lavender, and had them tuck me in and bring me cups of things that taste like broth but really are the juice of psychotropic boysenberries strained in midnight kitchens where the nuns there prayed. Don’t look at me like that. You dream of loony bins like me. You call them schools named after women who did never marry. You call them retirement villages. No matter. The boilerplate in the brochure is in identical Lilliputian font. The images stock photographs. I had not come to stay. Let’s not pretend that’s something novel. Did you intend to be here now? I pulled on the back door idly, as I pull on metal-plated oak doors of stately churches in big cities in bad neighborhoods, never thinking they might open, offer me salvation or a place to shake the rain and worry from my hair, get my thoughts together in one place. I pulled on the door of the old asylum, now deserted, left to rot, abandoned as I thought, when legislatures bused the former inmates down to Main Street, where they would find no place to dry themselves on rainy days (see: church, above) and sunny days would be devoid of even that emotional employment. It was on a weekday morning, in the summer as I recall. I pulled on the door. It opened to me. Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years, she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com
Listen to Linda reading and explaining 'Asylum' here. Linda's other work on Foreshadow: The Counting (Poetry, February 2023) Untitled (Poetry, October 2022) A Little Thing I Wrote (Poetry, October 2022) Wait It Out (Poetry, October 2022) On the Nature of Forgiveness (Poetry, May 2023) Engaging the Heart: Linda McCullough Moore and Pilgrimage (Interview, May 2023) By Erin Clark dear sister welcome! I hope that you have had a good journey and that this will be a blessed stay. If you would like us to meet I could come to St Hugh @ 3.20 on Wednesday but if you want to be undisturbed I shall quite understand. With love Sr Mary Cuthbert + pax Erin Clark (she/her) is an American writer & priest living in London. Her work has appeared in publications in the US, UK and Canada, including The Selkie, the Oxonian Review, the New Critique, Free Verse Revolution, The Primer, Over/Exposed, the Crank, Geez, About Place and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook Whom Sea Left Behind will be out in 2023 (Alien Buddha Press). You can find her online at emclark.co or on Twitter @e_m_clark.
By Sheila Dougal I. Oh for Shalom! For wholeness and home I felt it in my throat when his last words, “You deserve more,” nearly choked me out. It was almost excitement. Which is ridiculous: Who laughs in expectation at times of such devastation? II. Oh for reconciliation! For no more need for reparations I experienced a tiny glimpse when we faced each other in line formation like the Revolutionary War– You and I on one side, our sons on the other ready to fire the first shots at their father And your response, I shall never forget. “Son, I’d like to spend my life earning your trust again.” III. Oh for redemption! To finally gain that it wasn’t all in vain I added it up. It all made sense. I would do that, and you would do this. But it didn’t work like that. Turns out, there’s a different kind of math. There’s the kind where you die and everyone scoffs that you’re being used and it's all for loss. And three days later, or in my case ten thousand five-hundred and eighty-five, you realize you’ve walked out that door for the last time, and you’re alive. IV. Oh for rest! For actual complete resignation, no more competition I’m not exactly sure when it was I think it was around the same time You said, “We have different loves.” On that, we agreed And I walked you home And knew I wasn’t home And that was ok I wasn’t here to make a home for me, anyway. Sheila Dougal lives in the low deserts of Arizona with her husband and sons. Some of her poetry and essays are published at Fathom Mag, Clayjar Review, The Gospel Coalition, The Joyful Life Magazine and other publications. You can also find her at her blog, Cultivating Faithfulness, Twitter, Instagram and Facebook.
Sheila's other work on Foreshadow: Descent (Poetry, June 2023)  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. This episode shares highlights from the spiritual classic The Way of a Pilgrim. The founding editor of Foreshadow connects these passages with works published on Foreshadow and with this year's theme of pilgrimage and worship. In the book, an unnamed peasant discovers oneness within himself and with others through continually calling on the Lord's name. On his journey to Jerusalem, the pilgrim describes the effects this prayer has on the people he meets and on his own experience. Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
By Royal Rhodes Psalm 132 and 2 Samuel 6:14–23 Before the Ark, lord David danced as king – the thunderous Ark with cedar seraph wing that spreads its holy gold across this hill. The people saw his naked body fill the threshing floor with every leap, as if the calloused hand of God would reap him in some human harvest, winds that gust, that rise with urgent music from the dust. His princess bride, the child of Saul, with scorn had looked upon his beauty, as the horn and cymbals drove him faster. She reviled his body and would never bear his child. She despised the blessings he engaged by love for God, not for Saul or warfare waged: not David wielding sword and iron rod, but David dancing before the Ark of God. Royal Rhodes taught religious studies for almost 40 years. His poems have appeared in various journals, including Ekstasis, Ekphrastic Review, The Seventh Quarry, and The Montreal Review, among others. His poetry and art collaborations have been published with The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.
Royal's other work on Foreshadow: A Road Through Ohio Spring (Poetry, April 2023) A Pilgrim's Song (Poetry, May 2023) Journey to Silence (Poetry, July 2023) |
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