By Zaher Alajlani The feeling began rising within Dimitris Dimitropoulos. He’d read that the first week would be the hardest, but this was the middle of his fifth, and it had been utter hell. Something felt heavy in his chest as he sat behind the steering wheel. When he turned the ignition key, he heard it again like he had done thousands of times before. It was never old or bland. That sound, the car’s roar, was like a battle cry. And of all people, he could relate to both: battles and crying. The engine noise had always brought about the memory of his father. It was as though his dad’s voice was reverberating from beyond the grave, “Don’t forget me. I’m with you.” He recalled how his father, shortly before departing, had unlocked the apartment door and entered the living room, smiling at him and his mother. “You got good grades, and you’re going to a good college. You deserve your own car, Son.” Before Dimitris or his mother could say anything, he threw something shiny on the coffee table, and a look of satisfaction surfaced on his face when it clanked. “Here. These are the keys. The car is ten years old but still in great shape.” It was still in great shape now after four years—surprisingly, very surprisingly, for those who sunk deep into a whiskey bottle, then drove; those who spent nights at strip clubs watching damaged women twisting like snakes under faint lights, then drove; those whose grief had a touch of insanity like him often ended up driving on the wrong side of the road, into a streetlight, or off a cliff. He was aware of that, all right. Two of his collegemates had it that way. One died upon impact when his car veered into oncoming traffic, while the other shattered both legs and had to re-learn walking after driving straight into a traffic island. He lost both friends, still. God, merciful as He is, decided that no one could communicate with the dead, and so he lost the first one. As for the other, it was a mutual decision. Dimitris didn’t want a reminder that his behavior was akin to attempted suicide. The thought terrified him because he was not naïve nor foolish. He knew that life was fragile and that self-destruction was always wrong: wrong when you’d do it out of sheer stupidity, wrong when you’d do it out of spite, and absolutely wrong when you’d do it to cope with loss. Dimitris began driving towards the office, his hands and forearms feeling the warm Athenian summer sun pouring onto the dashboard. The dust particles were visible, especially around the cross hanging from the rearview mirror. While stopping at the traffic light, he opened the glove compartment, pulled out his sunglasses, and wore them. The tinted view brought on another painful memory: the girl stood in the narrow corridor, her short hair and petite frame making her look almost juvenile. She wasn’t juvenile, I assure you, but twenty. However, what’s the difference between twenty or seventy when it comes to heartbreak or loving someone who is always in an unrelenting existential crisis and whose emotions range from dread to spite, anger, and despair? With every step he took toward her, her tears looked more visible. “What I said was terrible, Agapi. I didn’t mean it. I just got terrified because I felt I was not good enough. I love you. I’d never say that word again. Please forgive me.” She hugged him. “With you or without you, I’m having this baby and raising it.” He embraced her tighter and whispered in her ear as though he were praying, “Forgive me, please. I promise I’ll step up emotionally and mentally. No more drinking. No more smoking. No more guys’ nights out. No more self-destruction. No more that awful word, I promise.” “Abortion” was that horrible word. What Agapi had just witnessed was his nervous breakdown. What he’d just witnessed was a terrific young woman showing the courage and wisdom he lacked. The feeling transmuted into feelings: shame, anger, bitterness, and spite. And those dreadful emotions were supposed to be as familiar to him as driving. Yet, they became suddenly unbearable, like walking on pins and needles. The road he’d taken a thousand times before was now also different. Everything he saw struck him as bizarre—the buildings, the traffic lights, the random faces, and the clear blue sky melting with the heat of the golden sun. Even the potholes he’d gotten so used to were now as repulsive as bird droppings on one’s face. “It’s a boy, the doctor told me,” Agapi’s words thudded in his head. He embraced her in his mind, feeling the warmth of her body and smelling her blemishless Mediterranean skin. “There’s so much to do before the baby comes,” he remembered her words. Financially, there wasn’t. He was fine. Even in the lousy Greek economy, any good IT specialist would’ve been. Of course, there’s so much to do and resolve. Yes, a lot to fix. So much to let go of, he thought. Now his stomach felt like a rope getting twisted and knotted into a noose. Like all men, Dimitris began thinking of familiar vices to find relief. Maybe, I should have one—only one. It would relax me. I won’t drink, not even a drop. But cigarettes are different. All artists smoke, and I’m an artist—an IT artist. I make good money. Why should I deny myself simple guilty pleasures? I can afford to smoke two packs a day, even four. That’s nothing to me. But then again, I’d be exactly like my father. I’d smoke like him. I’d suffer like him. I’d die young like him. And I’d leave my son way too soon like him. This inner monologue absorbed him until he suddenly found himself parking the car by the entrance of his workplace. He looked at the cross. It glistened in the bright light as though not belonging only to this world. He prayed, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.” He held his tongue, then let go, “And I pray that your will would be that I live better, become less bitter, let go, and have the courage to accept my agony.” He breathed deeply while massaging his forehead, then exited the car. “Please have some, Mr. Dimitropoulos,” said the old security guard at the main gate, extending a tray of chocolate. “No need for formalities. Dimitris is fine.” He took one and thanked him. “What’s the occasion?” The man’s smile carved two dimples on his chubby, red face. “My son got great grades and received his acceptance letter from the medical school. I’ve always wanted him to be a doctor, to be someone. You know what I’m saying.” “Of course, congratulations. I’m happy for you both.” All the negative feelings within Dimitris began receding. He looked at his car and smiled. “Does he have a car?” “A license, yes. A car, no. We can’t afford one, but he got his license when he turned eighteen a few months ago.” Dimitris winked at the man. “Now he has one.” “What do you mean?” “I’ll give you my car, and you’ll gift it to your son.” The man laughed like someone who suspected he was being mocked but was still not quite sure. “No, of course not. I can’t accept that.” “Why not? I was thinking about selling it anyway. But I won’t get much money for it because it’s old. It’s in great shape, though.” “But—” “No buts. Pass by my office during the lunch break, and we’ll go together to the town hall, and I’ll transfer it to your name.” “At least, let me pay you something. How much do you think you’d sell it for?” “Three chocolates.” “Huh?” Dimitris took three pieces of chocolate from the tray in the man’s hand. “You’ve just paid me.” “But—” “Again, no buts.” The guard’s eyes lit up. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you . . .” Dimitris walked towards his office with steady steps, with a sense of purpose he’d never had before. Each breath was as cleansing as a rebirth. By the time he was sitting in his chair, he knew that he’d already let go and that a transformation, much like the accident that killed his friend and the heart attack that stole his father, had happened in an instant. He was sure his life would be different and more challenging from then on, but above all, it would be better—much, much better. Zaher Alajlani is a Syrian short-story author, editor, researcher and translator living between Romania and Greece and writing primarily in English. His work has been featured in various international publications. Besides contributing to The Way Back to Ourselves, he is a prose editor for Agape Review and a proofreader for Metacritic Journal for Comparative Studies and Theory. Zaher has a Ph.D. from the Comparative Literature Department at Babes-Bolyai University, Romania, and speaks English, Arabic, Romanian and Greek.
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By Sandro F. Piedrahita AMDG “There can no more be a knight without a lady than a tree without leaves or a sky without stars.” Don Quixote “I am thinking of marrying and the girl to whom I intend to plight my troth is so noble, so rich and so good that none of you ever have seen her like.” Saint Francis of Assisi From his earliest youth, Francesco had dreamed of becoming a knight errant, to engage in glorious battle for the defense of his city and the honor of his lady. He had read all the romances of chivalry and hoped for a chance to imitate their heroes. He longed to make war for the sake of love and virtue, for God and glory. So when the opportunity arose and Assisi and Perugia began a fratricidal war, Francesco was ready to engage in battle. Nobody could dissuade him from his purpose, not even his mother Pica, who told him that battle was nothing like it was described in the books of chivalry. She warned him that war was ugly, painful, bloody, that it invited men to sin and kill, and yet her son would not desist. “Waging war against a perfidious enemy is sanctified by God,” he said. “Otherwise why would the Pope send thousands to fight against the Saracens in the Crusades? The only thing that matters is the justice of the cause.” Francesco’s father Pietro, a wealthy merchant, approved of his son’s decision and bought him a magnificent war horse and the raiment of a knight. Only the richest persons could afford to become knights, for the cost of the horse, the weapons and the armor was prohibitive. On the night before he left to do battle in Perugia, Francesco appeared below the balcony of his beloved, a lovely seventeen-year-old named Cristina. He was dressed like a knight errant and sitting on his horse next to his squire. Francesco’s armor was of chain mail made up of small interconnected iron rings. He also wore a hooded coat, trousers, gloves, and shoes all made from chain mail which covered his entire body except his face. Over the top, he wore a sleeveless velvet surcoat, which allowed him to show off his family coat of arms. He carried with him a long, triangular leather and wood shield and a wooden lance. In his gilded scabbard there was a heavy sword. “Oh, Lady Cristina,” he cried out. “Tomorrow I shall go into battle to pay homage to you and to right some wrongs. The citizens of Perugia have taken up arms against Assisi, and we must respond in kind. As a knight, I pledge to you that I shall fight nobly, and always remember that I am fighting for your honor. For you, who has made a prisoner and captive of my heart, I shall reap eternal reward and fame. What do you say, my fair Cristina?” The girl went into her room and soon appeared again at the balcony with a bouquet of roses in her hands. “Go and do battle, my gallant Francesco,” she commanded as she threw the roses toward him. “You must fight for the oppressed citizens of Assisi in order to justify yourself in the eyes of God.” “Do you promise that when I return I shall have your hand in marriage? You, Cristina, who are the object of my most chaste desires.” “I am your betrothed,” Cristina responded. “What woman could resist the charm of such a knight? You are dressed in glory, and I am sure that you shall return from battle glorious in your victory.” “The knight has a sublime mission,” responded Francesco. “One must abide by the code of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table. One must never kill senselessly nor murder anyone, only taking an enemy’s life in battle when absolutely necessary. One must give mercy to him who asks for it, even if the plea comes from an implacable foe. One must always protect the fair ladies, the orphans and the widows. One must never fight in battles that are not for God or country, certainly not for plunder or treasure. And one must fear God and safeguard His Church above all else, always remembering that salvation is the ultimate purpose of life.” “May God grant you success in battle,” replied Cristina. “With the aid of God, I promise I shall gain the victory.” At that point Francesco’s squire Sandrino Pancia interfered. He was nicknamed “Pancia” – Italian for belly – because of his bloated midriff. “We must be getting on,” he said. “Tomorrow Assisi’s army is to convene at five in the morning in the Piazza Commune next to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, where Bishop Guido is to bless our troops before they go into battle.” “Yes, that’s important,” replied Francesco. “A knight must be in the good graces of God so that he can achieve his noble quest.” “I for one need some sleep,” said Pancia. “If we are going to be at the Piazza Commune by five, the least we can do is go to sleep before midnight. Don’t forget it takes a while for me to put your chain mail armor on. That means we’ll have to be up by four. As you know, I am rather lazy.” “How can you be thinking of something like sleep at this time?” queried Francesco. “On the eve of battle, the only thing we should think about is how to fight to defend our city.” Then Francesco turned to his fair lady Cristina. “I must bid you adieu,” he said. “I shall return soon to tell you about our swift victory. With the strength of my mighty arm and the help of God above, I should be back within a month.” “Godspeed,” said Cristina as she threw a Rosary into his hands. “Farewell, my conqueror.” “Farewell, my lady,” said Francesco as he wrapped the Rosary about his neck. * * * After Bishop Guido blessed them, Francesco and his fellow soldiers made their way to the outer perimeter of Perugia, only twenty-five kilometers away from Assisi. The Perugians had been amassing troops at the border for weeks, and the people of Assisi had realized that war was imminent. There was simply no other reason for so many armed Perugians to congregate in such a manner. By ten o’clock in the morning, Assisi’s troops had arrived at their destination. Among them were infantry men with crossbows and knights in sartorial splendor accompanied by squires who hoisted the flags bearing Assisi’s coat of arms. Once they arrived, Assisi’s soldiers encamped at a site about a hundred meters away from where the Perugians were waiting for them. At first, nothing happened. The two opposing camps merely waited, nobody daring to go into the no-man’s land between the armies of Perugia and those of Assisi.As the days passed, Francesco became impatient and his squire expressed his hunger. Francesco was eager to do battle, although he had no idea what battle meant. On the fourth day, a Perugian knight entered the space between the two armies, riding on a white steed with a resplendent image of the Virgin Mary on his shield. Francesco marveled at the fact that both sides were seeking heavenly intervention, but decided to charge against the Perugian knight in any case. So Francesco advanced with his horse, and the joust began. The two horsemen lunged at each other and attacked each other with their lances. Everyone was in rapt attention as the two men participated in a ritual the townspeople had seen many times before in friendly competitions, knowing this time it was but the first step in a much larger war. Francesco acquitted himself honorably and managed to throw his rival off his horse. The knight from Assisi did not proceed to kill his enemy and manifested the mercy of a knight errant at the service of God. And for a brief moment – the briefest of moments – he basked in glory and had no doubt he would emerge victorious like the knights of the chivalrous romances he had read. But that was before he saw what war really meant, before he met face-to-face with Lady Death. As soon as the Peruvian horseman fell to the ground, another took his place and began to do battle against Francesco. This time it was Francesco who fell off his horse. The Perugian knight unsheathed his sword and prepared to kill him. Francesco, however, made good use of his shield and managed to escape. Soon great crowds from both sides entered the zone between the two encampments and started to fight. In the pandemonium that ensued, Francesco was able to find his horse and join in battle. That was when he first realized that being a knight errant was ultimately inimical to his nature. He simply could not bring himself to kill. The Perugians were his neighbors, and he counted many of them among his friends. So Francesco decided all he would do was to knock Perugia’s knights off their horses, never killing them. He would fight for victory without gambling with his soul. But then something horrible happened, and it would happen again and again, throwing him into the cesspit of despair. A Perugian – a giant of a man – charged against Francesco in fury and ruthlessly pounded on Francesco’s shield with his lance. Francesco had the good fortune of knocking the man off his horse. One of Assisi’s infantry men approached the Perugian lying on the ground and slit his throat with a copper dagger. “How could you?” asked Francesco incredulously. “Why did you take his life? God asks us to be merciful in the battle against our foes.” “Mercy never wins battles,” the infantry man responded. “If we don’t kill them, how do you want us to win the war?” Francesco continued to fight with his lance, knocking Perugian cavalry officers off their horses right and left. He never killed anyone, but he was instrumental in the death of many. Every time a Perugian knight fell off his horse, the soldiers from Assisi would finish him off with their weapons of war. And the Perugians were doing the same thing to the horsemen from Assisi. Everywhere there was death. Francesco saw no glory in the carnage that ensued. So many young men in the prime of their life lying dead on the ground soaked in their own blood. And for what? Certainly not to bring honor to fair ladies. Certainly not for the glory of God. It was a fratricidal war where brother was pitted against brother. They were not reclaiming the Holy Land from the Saracens. They were all fighting against fellow Italians, fellow Christians, men of good will. Francesco retreated briefly from the battle and wept silently in a corner. * * * The Perugians soon defeated the soldiers from Assisi, and Francesco was incarcerated along with Pancia his squire. Francesco expected to be immediately ransomed by his father, but apparently his captors and his father could not reach an agreement as to the amount that had to be paid. Francesco suspected that his father was driving a hard bargain, as was his wont, and that he was willing to let his son languish in jail for a year in order to persuade the Perugians that he would not pay one more cent than what he had initially offered. So the weeks passed, and then the months, and no one appeared to free the two men from their captivity. But that year was not misspent, as it forced Francesco for the first time in his life to seriously think of God. “Do you ever wonder what the purpose of life is?” he asked Pancia one afternoon as they were sitting on a bench in their cramped jail cell. “I don’t worry overmuch as to big important questions,” answered the squire.”I believe in Jesus and in His mother Mary, go to Mass on Sundays, try to follow the Commandments and leave the thinking to others.” “I always thought that being a knight would give meaning and purpose to my life, and yet when I engaged in battle I found it repulsive to no end. If God exists – and I’m sure He does – He could not have been pleased that the citizens of two neighboring towns killed each other in droves without even knowing why. I’m sure humanity’s penchant for war appalls the Christ. In every place that humans live, war is the order of the day.” “Do you think all war is bad?” asked Pancia as he scratched enormous belly. “What about the Christian wars to crush the infidels?” “I don’t know, Pancia, I don’t know. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to ask myself such questions. But I do wonder why the Moslems cannot be converted through teaching and example rather than force of arms. Why don’t we send them missionaries instead of warriors?” “With all due respect, my sire, I think that you are talking foolishly. They are a fearsome bunch. I don’t think they’ll convert to the one true faith even if ten thousand missionaries are sent their way.” “Still, nothing would be lost by trying.” “Other than the heads of all the missionaries,” Pancia replied. “What if I told you that in my dreams Jesus appeared to me telling me never to fight in a war again? What if I told you he said war is always a failure and a defeat?” “I think that’s very good advice, my sire. I for one have no penchant for battle. Or great bravery either. I am a peaceful man, a harmless quiet fellow. My back is still sore from the blows I received from the Perugians as I struggled for dear life. So go back to Assisi and become a cloth merchant like your father. I’m sure your life will be much easier than that of a mighty knight always on the verge of losing his life and limbs.” “I’m not interested in the life of a merchant. Business is an honorable profession as far as it goes. But I don’t want to spend my life arguing over money. I’ve been a great sinner, but greed has never been one of my vices. I’ve never cared too much about money one way or the other. Perhaps I can be an explorer. What do you think, Pancia? Perhaps I can go to Egypt and discuss religion with the Sultan himself.” “It’s easy to say you don’t care about money when your father is so prodigal with you. Earn your bread like every other man, and we’ll see if you begin to care about money. As far as your becoming an explorer, it would be sheer folly. You never know what brigands you might encounter along the way. And if you visit the Sultan of Egypt without an army, he’ll literally have your head on a platter like that of Saint John the Baptist. You won’t come back alive, my master.” “Still, there must be more to life than making money and growing fat, with all due respect. I’m searching for meaning in my life. Do you understand me? I believe that a great destiny awaits me. That’s what I’ll pursue. Perhaps I shall become a poet or a famous troubadour!” “Beware of grand ambitions, my sire. They can only lead to trouble. Humility is the most important of the cardinal virtues. Don’t get drunk on your own vanity.” “I know it! I know it, Pancia. And pride is chief of the cardinal sins.” * * * A year after Francesco was ransomed by his father, all the young men of Assisi were enlisting to fight in Apulia at the orders of Pope Innocent III. A certain Gauthier de Brienne claimed the crown of Sicily and with the Pope’s blessing had formed an army to reclaim it. Francesco’s father Pietro encouraged his son to enlist in order to redeem his honor. Pietro believed that Francesco should have died in battle during the war with Perugia rather than having allowed himself to be captured by his enemies. But the matter was not so clear to Francesco. He felt that two wolves were fighting over his soul and was not sure whether war was glorious or genocidal. On the one hand, there was his thirst for vainglory, the belief that he could achieve great things in battle. On the other hand was his great nobility of spirit, which told him fighting in a war as a mercenary for Gauthier de Brienne was sinful rather than glorious. The war which de Brienne was preparing would result in massive bloodshed, much worse than what Francesco had experienced in the little war with Perugia. When he expressed his doubts to his father, Pietro told him he was being a coward. “I think a year in a Perugian prison has made you lose your knightly brio. You are now afraid to kill or be killed. But such are the exigencies of war. And there is nothing sinful about a just war.” “I’ll pray about it,” replied Francesco. “What is there to pray about?” his father asked. “The Pope himself has given de Brienne his blessing. I thought you always wanted to achieve great things in life.” “And I still do. But I’m no longer sure that felling young men in battle is the way to do so.” Taking leave of his father, Francesco retired to the cave where he often prayed. “Please, Lord,” he said. “Give me a sign. Do you think it would be sinful pride for me to engage in a bloody war in Sicily, or would I be fighting for your greater honor?” After meditating for hours, Francesco finally fell asleep and was graced with a vision as he slept. He saw his father’s house had become a magnificent palace, full of golden swords, golden shields and spears, helmets which shone brightly. He did not fail to notice that two of the bright shining swords formed the image of a cross, as in the banners of the Crusaders, nor that the shields and armor were decorated with crosses. He also saw a lovely lady, resplendent in her beauty, beckoning him to some great battle. Francesco awoke in a cold sweat and was sure it was a message from God telling him that he should not only engage in war but that it would be glorious to do so. He would put on the armor of chain mail and ride his horse into battle once again, although he did not understand the apparition of the lady. He would no longer be fighting for the honor of Cristina, as that relationship had ended long before. Little did Francesco realize at the time that his betrothed would be Lady Poverty, for he had not met her yet and had no idea she would become his mistress. When he returned to his father’s house, Francesco was immensely happy. In his mind, the Lord had chosen to resolve his quandary and to remove any and all scruples about joining de Brienne’s expedition. His father was elated, purchased the suit of chain mail for his son as well as all the necessary weapons and a new war horse, as well as a small ass for his squire Pancia. The two men immediately joined a caravan of soldiers making their way to Rome, en route to southern Italy. Francesco, letting his pride take over once again, promised his father that he would come back a prince. But once they arrived at Spoleto, something happened which threw all his plans of earthly glory into disarray. He received another vision. This one told him he had not understood God’s prior message. “Return to your own country,” the voice said. “There it shall be revealed to you what you are to do, and you will understand the meaning of these visions. Why follow the servant instead of the Master on whom he depends?” Francesco was crestfallen and dejected to no end. Not only would he fail to attain the prize he so desired, but he would be humiliated by all of Assisi for being a coward. He cringed at the idea of returning to his city in such dishonor. And yet he was sure it was the Lord’s directive that he return to Assisi, though Francesco racked his brain and could not understand God’s purpose. If the golden weapons of his first vision did not signify that he should return to war, what could they mean? Who was the beautiful woman he had seen in the dream if not a lady for whose honor he had to engage in battle? As he and his squire arrived at the gate leading to Assisi, children pelted them with eggs and laughed at them with scorn, crying out “Codardos! Codardos!” That was the first time Pancia realized that his master’s new persona was no safer than the rollicking knight errant. Nor did he doubt that he would share in his master’s fate. * * * For months, Francis had no idea as to what his two visions meant. He was now a pariah, berated by all including his father for being a coward. And yet he was as far as possible from being a coward, unless refusing to kill your fellow man makes of one a coward. On the contrary, he still dreamed of great and valorous feats, sure that if the Lord was giving him messages in his dreams, it must be because God still had a grand purpose for him. So if the messages came from God, he resolved that the best way to decipher their meaning was to seek the answer from God. He visited all the churches of Assisi, often accompanied by his loyal Pancia, and prayed for a divine revelation. Pancia thought he was overdoing it with the prayers but said nothing. At first, the Lord was silent, but then, in the dilapidated church of San Damiano, Francesco heard a voice. “Francesco, don’t you see that my church is in ruins? Go restore it for me.” The knight turned to his squire. “Did you hear Him?” asked Francesco. “No, my Lordship, I heard nothing.” But Francesco jumped for joy, although in truth, he failed to understand the message. Nevertheless it gave him something useful to do with his time. It saved him from the terrible lethargy he had experienced on an ongoing basis after his disastrous return from Spoleto. And perhaps, thought Francesco, this latest apparition could help him understand the two prior visions. “Come,” he said to Pancia. “We must obtain the stones and mortar.” “For what, my Lord?” “We must rebuild this church,” replied Francesco. “It is a request from God.” “Where are you going to get the materials to refurbish it?” asked the ever practical Pancia. “Those things cost a good deal of money. This church is barely standing up.” Francesco, with joy painted on his face, responded simply, “I have a plan. Come follow me.” The two men returned to the shop owned by Francesco’s father, and Francesco took as many bales of cloth as he could carry on his horse and instructed Pancia to do the same. Then they went to the central marketplace and in a few hours sold all the fabric for a hefty price. Then Francesco sold his horse as well as the ass on which his squire rode through the neighborhoods of Assisi. “Your father isn’t going to like this,” said Pancia. “You’ve sold his best merchandise and the war horse too. Your father doesn’t suffer fools gladly, especially when it comes to his money.” “I’m doing this at the orders of my heavenly Father. Don’t you understand? His demands prevail over those of my earthly father. I must rebuild God’s church according to His instructions.” Thereafter they returned to the church of San Damiano, where they found the priest and told him they had obtained money to repair the church. “We shall use the money to repair your church. I myself will obtain the mortar and the stones and with my squire I shall commence the project.” “Your squire?” asked the priest quizzically. “My assistant,” responded Francesco. He was still in the habit of calling Pancia his squire, even though their engagement in war was over. “Thank you,” replied the priest, not expecting such a sudden boon. “The church could use a little rebuilding.” Francesco and Pancia did not immediately return home, for they knew Francesco’s father would be incensed. Instead, they hid in a cave for over a month. Finally Francesco and Pancia, ravaged by hunger and cold, returned to the house where Francesco lived with his father. Francesco was bursting with joy, singing one of the songs of the French troubadours which he so admired. Pancia, on the other hand, was apprehensive, for he suspected the day would end with a flogging. Upon their arrival to Assisi, dressed in rags, they were greeted with taunts from a group of boys. “Madmen! Fools! Pazzos!” they shouted as they threw stones and mud at the two men. It would not be the last time Pancia would be pelted with stones for following his master, nor was it the last time he would be called a madman for following his master’s vision. “Pazzo d’amore!” retorted Francesco as the stones struck him. “Crazy in love with God!” When the two arrived, Francesco’s father Pietro was waiting for them, cross-armed in the living room, having heard the noise of the boys taunting his son through a window. “I have a question for you,” he addressed his son in an even voice. “All of the finest fabric from my shop disappeared a month ago. That was very valuable cloth which I brought from France on my last trip. What did you do with it?” “We sold it,” Francesco responded with an expression of delight. “You sold it?” Pietro repeated. “I hope you obtained a good price. Show me the money.” “The money is not mine to return. According to God’s wishes, it must be used to repair the church at San Damiano.” Pietro could not believe what he was hearing. Incensed, he told his son to return the money immediately. “I can’t do that,” replied Francesco. “The money now belongs to Mother Church.” Pietro struck Francesco hard across the face. “That money belongs to me, and you shall return it. You’re nothing more than a common thief.” “You can strike me all you want,” Francesco resisted, “but it is the divine will that the church of San Damiano be rebuilt.” “Don’t tell me you’ve had another one of your foolish visions. Like the one that ordered you to return from Spoleto with your tail between your legs. Your conduct brought nothing but shame to our house.” “I haven’t made up any of my visions. At first the Lord’s messages were somewhat cryptic, I’ll admit it. But now He has given me specific instructions to fix the church of San Damiano. You should be happy. You can share in the exquisite joy of knowing your money will be used to make God’s wishes a reality.” Pietro then called two of his valets and directed them to chain down his son and throw him into a dungeon. As for Pancia, Pietro decided he should be flogged. The terrified man argued that he had done everything at his master’s bidding and had no choice in the matter, but it was to no avail. It was not the last time Pancia would be flogged for following Francesco’s outlandish wishes. At some point, Pietro brought the matter up with Bishop Guido and asked for the redress of his grievances. After listening to both sides, he told Francesco he had to return the money even if he intended to use it for a noble purpose, for the money was not his to give. Francesco nodded his head in agreement and took off all his velvet clothes without further ado. He threw his clothes in a heap, and on top of them, he threw the money. As he was standing completely naked before the bishop, he said in a peremptory voice, “Up to now I have called Pietro Bernardone my father, but now I have a purpose to thank God. I give him back not only this money he wants so much, but all the clothes I have from him. I am no longer the son of my father Pietro but only of my Father who is in Heaven.” Bishop Guido placed a shawl upon Francesco’s shoulders. His father left, taking the clothing and the money, never again to speak to a son he considered a madman and a fool. And the knight Francesco, for the first time in his life, was to meet face-to-face with Lady Poverty. * * * Sandrino Pancia, ever the squire, accompanied Francesco in his newly discovered destitution. They had no salary, no roof over their heads, no money for a bit of cheese or even a loaf of bread, certainly no guarantee for the morrow. When Pancia suggested that they seek employment as farmhands or as laborers in one of the monasteries, Francesco waved his hand in the air dismissively and said, “God will provide.” When his squire remonstrated that God helps those who help themselves, Francesco responded without hesitation. “We shall help ourselves indeed. And in honor of Lady Poverty, we shall do it by begging.” “So you mean you don’t intend for us to work? You expect us to survive based on the benevolence of passersby? Didn’t the Lord say, ‘By the sweat of your brow you will eat your bread’?” “We shall work repairing the church at San Damiano and other churches in the zone. So many of them have been neglected and left in disrepair. But we shall not earn our living from work, for that would not be pleasing in the eyes of Lady Poverty.” “Who is this Lady Poverty? I have never heard of such a woman. Why would she prevent us from seeking some material comfort through an honest day’s work?” “Remember the dream I had,” Francesco responded, “where I saw a beautiful woman surrounded by instruments of war, and I concluded she was sending me to battle for Gauthier de Brienne? Well, it turns out I misunderstood the vision. It is only in the last few days that I have figured it out. The lady was not inciting me to military battle for an earthly prince but to a peaceful war on behalf of the prince of princes, our Lord Jesus Christ. So from now on we shall not only be mendicants, but we shall publicly preach Christ’s message of repentance. In fact, we shall start tonight.” “All right,” said Pancia, “but it is not Lady Poverty that I fear. The one who terrifies me is Mistress Hunger. How shall we be able to eat if we do not work?” That night the two men went to the Piazza Commune, and Francesco began to sing and dance, encouraging Pancia to follow suit. He sang chivalrous songs about doing battle for one’s lady, but in his mind the songs were all about Lady Poverty. Then he began to preach, encouraging people to repent and to seek the Eternal Kingdom. And he laughed with joy, laughed like a madman, as some in the crowds began to call him crazy, for the preacher was dressed in rags. “I think it’s time to leave,” said Pancia. “I don’t think the townspeople of Assisi like your dancing or your message.” But Francesco was unperturbed. “Yes, I am a madman,” he exclaimed, “a madman for Christ. Let us all follow the folly of the Cross. Welcome to the lunacy of love. Do not keep gold or silver or money in your girdles, nor wallet for your journey nor two tunics nor sandals. What did Jesus say? If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his Cross and follow me.” Then Pancia mustered the courage to intervene. He was brief, for he was not a man used to public discourse, but Francesco encouraged him to do so. “Do everything this man tells you to do,” he said simply. “No one can tell you anything better.” Francesco repeated another injunction of the Christ. “Take nothing for your journey, neither staff nor knapsack, shoes nor money.” Suddenly a large group approached the two men and began beating them with their walking sticks and pummeling them with their fists. “Madmen!” they cried out. “Crazy fools!” “I thought something like this would happen,” Pancia lamented as the men furiously attacked him, and he made an effort to run away. “You should be pleased,” Francesco responded as if he didn’t feel the pain of the canes across his back. “You are suffering for the sake of the Lord. What greater glory could there be? What greater homage to our Lady Poverty? Don’t you realize that the contempt of others is a blessing?” Once they escaped, Pancia complained bitterly about the incident, but Francesco accepted it with unbridled joy. “Happy are those who are persecuted,” he exclaimed, “because the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.” But the night was not over. As the two men fled to the cave where they had found refuge, they encountered three ruffians in tattered clothes. Francesco mistook them for disciples of Lady Poverty and greeted them with mirth. “I am a herald of the Great King,” Francesco boisterously announced. “Come and follow me, fellow knights of Lady Poverty!” The three men were perplexed by the man’s words, as the truth was that they were thieves. “Herald of the Great King,” they mocked him, “turn over all your money.” “If I had any money, I would willingly give it to you, since you are obviously poorer than me. My poverty has not forced me to become a thief. But I’ve made a vow to Lady Poverty and reject the use of money, so there’s nothing for me to share.” “And what about you?” they asked, turning to Pancia. “What are you carrying in that bag?” “Just a piece of cheese I received from a generous soul.” “Well, turn it over,” one of the thieves demanded. “Give it to them,” ordered Francesco. “They are obviously hungry.” “I shall not,” Pancia protested. “That’s all I have for the morrow. I am hungry too. Don’t you see that I’m a shadow of my former self?” The three robbers proceeded to beat the two men up and throw them into a ditch. Francesco was once again unperturbed – he thought he was earning Heaven’s treasures – but Pancia violently protested that his whole body was stinging as a result of the night’s events. “I never imagined this new life we’re living would lead to so many blows. Your Lady Poverty is certainly a demanding mistress.” “Following this path won’t be easy,” responded Francesco. “I perfectly understand if you don’t want to follow me on this journey. But let me tell you that turning your life over to Christ and Lady Poverty will lead you to receive a jewel of immeasurable value. She can provide you with treasures you cannot imagine. You must decide if you want to join me not only as a squire but as a knight for Christ with all the joy and suffering that entails.” “When you say I shall become a knight and receive a treasure, what do you mean? Knights are often given islands to administer. Is that the kind of bounty I should expect from Lady Poverty?” “No, you’re getting it all wrong, Pancia. The treasure is the poverty itself. You must imitate the Christ born in a simple manger and crucified nearly naked on a Cross. You must put to bed all fear and worry and just have faith in the one true Christ.” “Well, I won’t leave you alone on such a difficult journey,” said Pancia. “I have followed you into battle in the past, and I shall follow you into battle in the future.” “You’re a fool,” said Francesco mirthfully as if the word was not an insult but an accolade. ”We shall both be fools for Christ and Lady Poverty.” * * * As the months passed, Francesco continued to joyfully suffer through insults, blows and taunts every time he preached, sang and danced in the Piazza Commune, but among many of the citizens of Assisi his message began to strike a chord. Some wondered whether he might be a saint, for they had never seen anyone imitate Jesus to such an extent, and they approached him in all humility to kiss his hands. He was taking the injunctions of the Christ quite literally rather than metaphorically, as many of them did. Francesco’s extreme conduct also made the citizens of Assisi feel a certain shame, for they realized how far they were from the example set by this new apostle and by inference the Christ. And there were a few – a very few – who decided not only to emulate him but to join him. Among them were some of the wealthiest men in Assisi, who sold all their goods and distributed the proceeds to the poor in order to live with Francesco and Lady Poverty. Bernard of Quintavalle for example was one of the richest men in town. After a night with Francesco when they discussed the purpose of his life, Francesco suggested he open the Bible at any page to see what plans Jesus had for him. The answer could not have been more peremptory. “If you will be perfect,” said the passage they had found, “go sell what you have and give it to the poor.” Bernard liquidated all his assets the very next day and turned over all the money to a leprosarium in need of funds. Soon he put on an old brown tunic and began to beg with Francesco to the amazement of all of the citizens of Assisi. Next came Peter of Catanii, a well-known jurist who also sold all he had and put on a brown robe to seek alms in the streets. Eventually nine other men joined Francesco in their pursuit of Lady Poverty. That is when an outlandish idea came to his mind. As Francesco and Pancia were putting the final touches to the church of San Damiano – they had paid for the materials with money obtained by begging – Francesco turned to Pancia and told him he had finally understood what the Christ had meant when He ordered him to repair his Church, which had fallen into ruins. “Repairing the church of San Damiano is all well and good,” said Francesco, “but that is not what the Christ asked me to do. When He spoke of repairing His church, He didn’t mean this little chapel, but the universal Church itself. He was referring to Peter’s barque, which is tossed on the sea of disbelief, worldliness and persecution. The Good Lord wants me to restore His Church, to preserve the boat from the hunger of the sea.” “With all due respect,” said Pancia, “that sounds like a pretty tall order. You’re a humble man who lives by collecting alms. You’re not the Pope or even a bishop. How do you think a lowly man like you could restore a church of millions of people?” “You’re forgetting the Christ built His church with twelve disciples. But after Pentecost Sunday, those few apostles multiplied and conquered the world.” “Beware of your wild ambitions,” said Pancia. “You’ve been like this all your life. In your deepest heart, you desire honor, fame, success. But that is not the humility which you have taught me again and again. Leave the barque of Peter to Peter’s heirs. You devote yourself to smaller tasks.” “I shall consider what you’re saying, but aspiring to greatness is not the same thing as sinful pride. God created man to do great deeds. And I see no other meaning to God’s command that I repair His Church. The problem with you is that you aspire to too little, that you’re stuck on earth and don’t see things of Heaven.” “If you say so,” replied Pancia. “But even if excessive ardor is not a manifestation of vanity, your plan is an impossibility nonetheless.” “I had a dream,” responded Francesco. “Another dream?” “The Lord revealed to me that our little Order is going to spread all over the world.” “We’re not even an Order yet,” answered Pancia. “Don’t you need approval from Pope Innocent III?” “Don’t worry about the minutiae,” said Francesco. “The Pope will approve our Order.” “And then what? Do you propose to send Bernard to France, Giles to Castile, Angelo to England, Morico to Portugal, Sabbatino to Germany? You don’t have enough disciples to convert men to the cult of Lady Poverty throughout the world as you propose.” “To men it may be impossible. But don’t forget that to God all things are possible. Trust in Him, and become willing to let Him guide us. I assure you we will gain many more adherents.” “You’re still the knight errant of old, my lord, still fighting imaginary battles for your Lady.” * * * Francesco and his eleven disciples began to make their way to Rome a sunny day in August in order to meet with Pope Innocent III and seek his blessing for their Order. Assisi is about two-hundred kilometers from Rome, and it took Francesco and his fellow mendicants about forty hours to make the trek. By the time they arrived, their brown tunics were covered in dust, and their faces were dirty. But that did not stop Francesco from immediately appearing at the palace where Pope Innocent III lived. Francesco wore his old tunic, patched and repatched a dozen times, and apologized to the Pope for arriving unannounced. The Pope sitting on a throne looked at him as if he were an insect. “How dare you come to the Holy See dressed in rags and with an unwashed face? And there’s a stench about you! Do you live with pigs?” “This is my only tunic, your Holiness. I travel light in accordance with the Lord’s directives. I wish my tunic wasn’t so old and ragged, but that is all I have. As far as the smell, I apologize, your Holiness. I live on the streets and don’t always have a place to take a bath.” “What is your business with me?” “My name is Francesco of Assisi. I come to beg for you to approve my request that you allow the small group with whom I share the Gospel to become a Catholic order.” “I’ve heard about you,” replied the Pope. “Your group lives in complete poverty and lives off alms. And you have a reputation of being a bit of a madman. I’ve heard that you preach to the birds and converse with wolves. Tell me, Francesco, do you think animals have souls?” “One never knows, your Holiness. Birds are beautiful creatures, and I’m sure Heaven is full of beautiful things. I’m sure there are birds in Paradise. As to the wolf of Gubbio you’ve heard about, I merely convinced the animal not to attack the villagers or their livestock.” “That certainly does not comport with traditional Catholic teaching, but I suppose it’s a harmless imagination.” “I’ve brought the Rule for our proposed Order, your Holiness. Would you like to read it? In a dream, the Lord told me to rebuild His Church.” “Before we discuss anything, go back and take a bath and come back in a new tunic. Your attire is an affront to the Papacy.” “With all due respect, your Holiness, would you have refused to see me if I had come dressed like the Christ as He was crucified? My poverty is merely an emulation of the Christ. Jesus did not live in a palace, nor was he ever dressed like a king. He died nearly naked on a Cross. Why should His followers be dressed any better? I know it is an extreme idea, but it is a logical extreme.” “Don’t tell me you’re one of those heretics who criticize the Pope and the bishops for supposedly living in luxury.” “That would not be me,” replied Francesco. “I honor you as the Vicar of Christ on earth and would not dare to reproach you for anything. My proposed Rule says explicitly that the Order shall be governed by the Pope. But I do think that some in the Church have forgotten the example set by the Christ and His earliest followers. Money has polluted the Church. Ecclesiastical privileges are bought and sold rather than earned.” “Are you accusing me of simony?” “Far from it,” replied Francesco. “I am but a little beggar for Christ and would not presume to give your Holiness advice. But I don’t think that dressing like a poor man is a sign of disrespect.” “Well, come back tomorrow. You’ve taken up enough of my time, and I have other matters to take care of. But let me tell you that based on what I’ve heard, I’m probably not inclined to approve your Order. It sounds like a group of lunatics taking matters to extremes. Have you considered that trying to so thoroughly imitate the Christ might be a sign of forbidden vanity? And please, when you come back tomorrow, don’t do so in the appearance of a swineherd.” On the next day, Francesco did not wear a new tunic or replace his threadbare sandals. Instead, he put on the same old tunic and covered his face with ash. Pancia thought his master had finally become completely demented. This was madder than the time when he had advised friar Juniper to run after a thief who had stolen his cowl in order to hand him his gown. “If you go to the Pope with ashes on your face, he is going to throw you out of his quarters. Why don’t you just wear Bernardo’s tunic instead? It’s much newer than yours and doesn’t have any patches. And maybe put a little ointment on your neck.” “I know what I am doing,” replied Francesco dismissively. “Don’t forget that I am guided by God. I want to remind the Pope that we are destined to become ashes. If such is the fate of our body, who cares about the clothes we wear? And wasn’t Christ’s robe covered with patches?” “If you say so,” answered Pancia. “But I think your conduct will be completely counterproductive. If you go to the Pope in such a condition, your dreams of a grand multitudinous Order will go up in flames. You shall fail spectacularly.” “I’ve had a dream,” Francesco peremptorily replied. And without any further explanation he made his way to the Vatican. The Pope did not receive Francesco with anger. “I see your face is covered with ashes. What does that mean?” he asked. “I just wanted to remind your Holiness of the words of God. “For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ Since our bodies are mere dust, it does not matter how we clothe them. So I have decided to come back wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, not as a sign of disrespect but to show you there is nothing offensive about poverty, especially when it is a choice.” At that point, the Pontiff did something entirely unexpected. He rose from his chair, kissed Francesco’s hands and suddenly began to sob. “How could I not have seen,” said the Pope amid his tears, “that you are a holy man, a man of God? I understand now what the Lord meant when he told you to rebuild his Church. I myself have struggled to reform the barque of Peter for years, but I always thought change would come from above, from the bishops and prelates of the Church. But now I understand that change must come from the bottom up. It will not be the Bishop of Rome alone who shall restore the Church, but your little army of supplicants and other men of good will. Now let’s see the Rule you propose.” “I am most grateful,” said Francesco, “but if I’m not being impertinent, what brought about this change of heart? Yesterday you were suggesting I preach to the pigs, and now you are ready to approve my Order.” “I too had a dream, Francesco, which showed me that your project of extreme poverty is pleasing in the eyes of God. I saw the huge Lateran Basilica, that thousand year old jewel of Christendom, horribly leaning to one side and about to collapse. Suddenly a little poor man dressed in rags pressed his shoulders against the church to buttress the tottering walls. When I saw the face of the poverello, I realized that it was you, Francesco. Cardinal San Paolo has also recommended that your Order be approved. He has fiercely argued that your Order should not be disapproved on the grounds that it is too extreme, since that would be to say Jesus also was too extreme.” After the Pope inspected the Rule proposed by Francesco, he approved it without making any changes. Francesco and his platoon of penniless friars now had the authority to preach throughout the world. When he was about to leave, Francesco kneeled before the Pontiff. “You kissed my hands, and now I must kiss your feet,” Francesco said, “for it is not right for the master to kiss his servant when it is the servant who must kiss his master.” “May the Lord increase the Order of the Friars Minor,” the Pope replied with a blessing. And Francesco shuddered at the monumental task ahead. * * * Ten years after Francesco’s audience with Pope Innocent III, the Order of Friars Minor had grown exponentially. Young men all over Europe – from Hungary to Aragon, from France to Germany – had been seduced by the charms of Lady Poverty and had sworn their troth to her. Francesco was inordinately pleased by the growth of his Order, but at the same time was afraid so much success might go to his head. He was now at the head of an institution with thousands of members and wielded real power. At the same time, the strictures of Lady Poverty were no longer a burden to him, as he had grown used to them over the years and was accustomed to living a life of voluntary destitution. So he decided to do more, lest he succumb to a sinful complacency. He announced to Pancia that he had decided to join the Christian soldiers who had gone to Egypt in the Fifth Crusade at the orders of the Pope. Francesco’s faithful companion was astonished. Hadn’t Francesco forsworn war ever since he received the message at Spoleto? Did he now intend to fight in a Crusade? “I am not going to Moslem lands in order to engage in physical battle,” Francesco responded. ”I plan to go there to convert those who need conversion, to wage a grand spiritual battle.” “Do you plan to convert the Moslems?” asked Pancia. “I don’t see how you can do that. They are fiercely loyal to their faith.” “Yes, I plan to convert them and some wayward Christians too. I intend to put an end to the Fifth Crusade. And I want you to join me.” “With all due respect, my sire, what you propose to do is a fool’s errand. I don’t know what you mean by converting wayward Christians. If you mean you want them to abandon battle, you shall never accomplish that. They believe they are on a God-given mission and enjoy the spoils of war. As far as the Moslems, I’ve heard they’re holed up in Damietta while the Crusaders lay siege to the city. Unless you plan to cross enemy lines, you cannot possibly convert the Moslems of Egypt.” “We shall cross enemy lines if need be,” responded Francesco peremptorily. “We shall enter Damietta and talk directly with the Sultan.” “Have you had a dream again, my lord? If you haven’t received a message from God, what you’re proposing is sheer folly. As soon as we enter lands occupied by the heathens, we shall promptly be decapitated by their scimitars.” “In that case we shall be martyrs for the cause of Christ. What death could be more glorious?” “You intend to take us on a suicidal mission,” said Pancia, shaking his head. “I don’t think God requires so much of us.” “If you don’t want to join me, I shall not order you to do so. But you too have grown complacent in your faith. Maybe the Lord wants us to risk all to prove our fealty to Him.” “I’m sorry to say so,” responded Pancia, “but that is the zaniest idea you’ve ever had. You think you’re just going to enter the Sultan’s camp and make him a Catholic? You won’t even be able to go through his ferocious guards without being killed.” “When life itself seems lunatic,” responded Francesco, “who knows where madness lies? Too much sanity may be madness; and maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be. God does not approve of bloodbaths. And this won’t be the first time people take me for a fool.” “Throughout all these years,“ said Pancia, “I’ve never allowed you to face your perils alone. This new lunacy will not be the exception. We shall march together into the land of death for a heavenly cause.” When Francesco and Pancia arrived in Egypt, the siege of Damietta had already begun. Francesco immediately began to inveigh the Christian crusaders, demanding that they accept the terms of a peace proposal made by Sultan Malik al-Kamil. Francesco boldly told the Christian troops that they were wrong in what they were doing and bitterly complained that they were courting disaster as war was always contrary to the will of God. But as had happened so often in his life, he was met with jeers and taunts, spat upon by those he tried to convert. When the Crusaders launched a battle to control Damietta, they were routed by the Moslem forces as Francesco had predicted, and thousands of Christians died. Francesco remembered the small war with Perugia in which he had participated as a youth and which taught him that war was never justified. But this time the death toll was so much worse – the bloodied corpses of five-thousand Crusaders were strewn everywhere – and the carnage was caused by two armies violently protesting that their actions were commanded and sanctified by God. “Let the princes of the whole world take note of this,” Francesco spoke of the Christian defeat as he wept. “It is not easy to fight against God, that is, against the will of the Lord, as stubborn insolence usually ends in disaster.” When Francesco announced to Cardinal Pelagius Galvani, papal legate and leader of the Fifth Crusade, that he intended to enter Damietta in an effort to convert Sultan Malik al-Kamil to Christianity and end the war, Pelagius readily agreed. He knew that Francesco decried the Fifth Crusade despite the fact that it had been ordered by the Pope. He knew Francesco said the evil of war could never be used to accomplish something good and urged a peace agreement with the Moors since violence was an affront to God. He also knew that the Sultan had decreed that anyone who delivered to him the head of a Christian would be rewarded with gold. If Francesco’s madness ended with his death at the hands of the Saracens, mused Cardinal Pelagius, so be it. * * * When Francesco and Pancia, accompanied by an Arab interpreter, got close to the three-walled Arab stronghold of Damietta, they were spotted by four of the Sultan’s black African guards who proceeded to scuffle with and arrest them. “We’re here to see your Sultan,” Francesco explained to his captors through the interpreter. “We’re here on a mission from God.” The two Italian men were dressed in patched-up brown tunics with white ropes about their waists, looking nothing like emissaries from Cardinal Pelagius. The African guards had no idea who they were. Then they started vigorously arguing with each other. The interpreter told Francesco and Pancia that the four guards were arguing whether or not they should be immediately be put to death. “Now we’re done!” exclaimed Pancia to Francesco as he put both hands on his ruddy cheeks. “They are going to cut off our heads!” “Why are you terrified?” Francesco replied in a calm voice. “Don’t you see that one way or another God will protect us to the end? Oh man of little faith, do you not yet believe?” The guards put the two friars in chains and decided to take them to the Sultan, who would decide their fates. “Who are these men?” the Sultan queried. “They say they are here on a mission from Allah,” responded one of the African guards. The Sultan turned to the two Christians. “So you believe Allah is the only God? You’re dressed like Sufi priests. Or are you Christians bringing an offer of peace to end this war?” “We believe in one God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. But you are right. We are here to propose an offer of peace to end this heinous war. But the offer does not come not from Cardinal Pelagius. It comes from God Himself.” “So you weren’t sent by your leader Pelagius?” asked the Sultan. “On whose authority, then, do you speak?” “I am here on the authority of Jesus Christ, to whose faith I desire to convert you.” “Oh, little mendicant,” the Sultan laughed. “Your madness is matched only by your courage. You have willingly entered the lion’s den on a mission doomed to fail. If all the armies of Europe have not converted me to the Catholic faith, why do you think a little man in tattered clothes will be able to do so?” “On the force of my ideas,” replied Francesco. “If you listen with an open heart, you can learn the wonderful way of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace throughout his life and never war.” “It certainly seems that His followers have not heeded His message. The Christians have brought nothing to these lands other than never-ending bloodshed.” “Alas,” confessed Francesco. “What you say is true. But they are diverging wildly from the message of the Christ. I have repeatedly warned them that their war is not in accordance with the will of God. They have refused to listen, bringing disaster to these lands and dishonor to themselves.” “Well, I shall not order your execution. Why don’t you stay a bit? I will gladly listen to what you have to say. I must warn you that I will not abandon my faith.” Then Francesco made an offer to the Sultan which horrified Pancia. He had thought his master could no longer do anything that would surprise him, but he was wrong. Just when their safety was assured by the Sultan, Francesco abruptly proposed a solution which could only end in death. It was one of Francesco’s typical flights of fancy, but this time he had gone too far. Francesco suggested that the Sultan prepare a great pyre, then Francesco and Pancia would go through the fire. If they survived, the Sultan’s men were to do the same. The test would show which religion was favored by God. Fortunately, the Sultan rejected the proposal out of hand, laughing once again. “Oh, little man of Christ,” he smiled. “How you amuse me.” Like anyone who spent any length of time with Francesco, the Sultan of Egypt at first thought he was a fool but ended up believing he was a sage. The Sultan, a hardened warrior, detested war and had repeatedly sued for peace, even offering the Christians control of the Holy Sepulcher, the ostensible purpose for the Fifth Crusade. All of his offers had been rejected by Cardinal Pelagius, so the Sultan had reluctantly been forced to engage in a brutal war which decimated the armies of both sides. He marveled at Francesco’s frank admission that the atrocity of the Fifth Crusade had not been ordained by the Christian God but by those who ignored Jesus’ injunction to treat our enemies like friends. Just as the leper, and just as the Pope, had been made in the image and likeness of God, so too the Moslem. * * * In the end, Francesco never knew whether or not he had succeeded in converting the Sultan to the Christian faith. There were rumors among the Crusaders that he had been secretly baptized and that he had made all his concubines depart, not wanting to engage in continuous sin. At all events, after his talk with the poverello – the little poor man – the Sultan treated Christian prisoners with humanity, no longer paying for their heads as he had been his wont to do, but keeping them in comfortable prisons until they could be exchanged for Moslem captives. Still, when he was on his deathbed, Francesco spoke of his inability to establish peace between the Christians and the Moslems as his life’s greatest failure. He had failed to convince the Moslems to accept the Christ, and he had failed to make those who were nominally Christian to avoid the depredations of war. “Perhaps,” said Francesco to Pancia, “perhaps everyone was right in calling me a madman. Forgive me, Pancia, that I led you to seem as mad as myself. I risked your life on an impossible mission to establish peace between the Christian and the Moslem. I now realize they will be warring against each other into the future. The centuries will pass, and the Crusades will continue, and the land where our Lord was born shall be known as the most violent region of the world.” Pancia, weeping bitterly, responded that his master was no madman. “It was noble and brave and beautiful for you to attempt to broker peace between the Christians and the Moslems. I still believe they can be converted to the Catholic faith, and that the Catholics can relearn Christ’s message never to engage in bloody wars.” “How can we convert Moslems to the Christian faith when they are immolated for doing so by their leaders? How can we teach Christians that war is always a defeat when the Pope himself sends them into battle? You were right when you told me that entering Moslem territory to convert the Sultan was a fool’s errand.” “I was wrong, my master, I was wrong. Didn’t Saint Paul preach that we should be fools for Christ?” “We are fools on account of Christ, but you are wise in Christ,” Francesco quoted from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. “You see?” Pancia queried. “Your famous madness was wisdom in the end. You were imitating the folly of the Christ. “Perhaps that was a sinful vanity, to think that I could live my life as Jesus had lived His. I fell far short of that, Pancia.” “Do you realize how many souls have been saved through your ministry? There are thousands of men in the Order you founded, and each of those men has converted thousands to the Faith. So your sinful vanity – your unflinching commitment to Lady Poverty – has resulted in the salvation of millions. One can never be accused of sinful pride when he is merely a servant at the service of his master.” “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I can gain Heaven yet.” “Of course,” said Pancia, “and I hope you’ll continue to protect me from your celestial home above.” “Blessed be almighty God who has shown me such goodness. In truth, his mercies are boundless and the sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back.” And with those words Francesco expired. Several years later, while preaching to the Moslems of Morocco, Pancia was martyred for the Faith. 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) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) By Bryant Burroughs The Day of Vengeance had come at last! The Magdala marketplace vibrated with news that a magnificent dinner-party would be held that very evening in nearby Capernaum, and the host for this party was none other than Simon, the man I hated. The market gossip praised him: Simon the Pharisee; Simon the wealthy lawyer; Simon who had the ear of the High Priest and, it was rumored, that of Herod. To me he was Simon the Murderer, the destroyer of all I had treasured. Hurrying home to pack a rucksack, I stepped into my parents’ room. It was quiet and still, a room of memory. My mother’s carved wooden box with its ivory-encrusted top lay in its usual place on the bedside table. The box had been a wedding gift from my father to his mesmerizing bride. I slid the top open, revealing the ivory-handled hairbrush with which she had brushed our hair every morning and night. Every day, brush and talk and laugh. I caressed the handle, and memories flooded my heart. Sobbing bitter tears of loss, I clasped the wooden box to my chest and collapsed onto the bed. I don’t know how long I wept, but after a time I turned onto my side to look again inside the cherished carved box. One by one, I removed the contents resting on a linen cloth at the bottom of the box. The gold ring that my father gave my mother on their wedding day. A necklace of celestial blue gemstones, a wedding gift from my grandmother in Magdala. Two gold bracelets with fish-shaped clasps. A tiny clutch of red hair. How many times had my mother opened this box, held these treasures, kissed these strands of hair? Love lived in this carved box. It was this precious box that my mother had saved as she and my father frantically bundled me in blankets in the midnight blackness and fled the inn that my father’s father had built. I was not yet a year old. Countless retellings have implanted memories that fill my senses. I feel my father’s shock when his friend Joseph roused him from sleep with frightening news: “I’ve had a dream-warning from God.” I tremble with my mother’s terror upon hearing that soldiers were coming to murder every young boys in Bethlehem. I hear my father’s cries, “There’s not a minute to lose,” as they stuffed a few bags with clothes and food. I sense, too, my mother’s hope as they began their escape northward toward her home village. “We’ll be safe in Magdala,” she said over and over. The small fishing village was their “magic place.” It was in Magdala’s fish market she had met the young innkeeper seeking to secure a good price for a half-dozen barrels of pickled fish. He was entranced by the red-haired woman who won his heart with a glance . Within a few days, he returned to Bethlehem with pickled fish and the woman he would marry. Two years later, harried by fear for their daughter’s life, they again looked to Magdala as a magic place, this time for safety and sanctuary. I recall the day as a young girl that I blurted a question to my mother: “Why didn’t you and Papa go back to your inn? Why did you stay here in Magdala?” She paused a few seconds. “It was an evil time,” she responded. “Many babies were killed. We brought you to a safe place.” Even a twelve-year-old recognized that her answer was incomplete. “Are children still being killed there?” I quizzed. “Oh, no, Mary, dearest daughter. We're safe here. It’s just that….” Mother grasped my hands. “Your Papa’s uncle is not as good on the inside, where it counts, as he appears on the outside. He is a dreadful man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Her words baffled me. What did being good on the inside have to do with their refusal to return to their inn? And why had I never heard of this evil uncle? I tried again. “Mother, I don’t understand.” Catching the hint of my exasperation, she took my hand. “Let’s go up to the rooftop. I promise to tell you what happened.” From our rooftop pallets, the Sea of Galilee shined to the east, its waves shimmering in the sun as fishing boats ambled across the water. To our right, women fetched water from the village well, and beyond the women, a rocky cliff jutted out into the sea. We basked in the warmth of the day and the blue of the water. Then, in a very quiet voice, my mother resumed her story. “When we fled with you in our arms, we were only a few minutes ahead of the soldiers. There was no time to load a cart. We left everything behind. We hurried here, to my village, to my family, to the very spot where your Papa and I met.” She smiled and pointed to a corner of the village square below where we sat. “It was right there.” “I know,” I smiled back. It was our habit to walk to that spot every day. I gave her another moment to collect her words. I sensed that whatever came next had to be said. My mother’s gaze was far over the sea when she said, “The captain of the soldiers had a list. His soldiers went house to house and killed every male child on the list that they could find. Only a handful escaped.” The she exhaled. “Mary, the list...this murderous list…came from Papa’s uncle Simon.” I gasped in shock. “My name was on the list? But I am a girl. He gave them my name?” “Yes. A the end of the list, the very end, Simon wrote ‘the Innkeeper’s child.’ His hatred toward us was such that he would add even our beloved daughter’s name to this list.” Then perhaps it’s a good thing after all that I didn’t know this Uncle Simon. “But that was years ago,” I exclaimed. “Surely the captain of the soldiers has forgotten about the list. Wouldn’t we be safe to return now?” “Yes, the captain of the soldiers may have forgotten,” my mother replied, “but Simon has not. Soon after we settled in Magdala, he sent a letter. Such an evil, treacherous letter. He knew we had escaped, and he knew where we were hiding. He threatened that a single word from him would bring soldiers to our door, and this time you would not escape alive.” I shivered as my mother took my hand and finished the hard words that had to be said. “In payment for keeping our hiding place secret, he demanded our inn. Our inn! And he warned that he had spies – cowards who would alert him if we ever tried to return. We had no choice. We’re safe here. We’ve built our life here.” At last, I understood the whole story, and my heart burst with love for my mother and father. For years Magdala was the safe and happy place my parents had sought. As I grew into a young woman, I never tired of hearing neighbors praise me with “You look just like your mother!” She was beautiful and kind and sure of herself, and I wanted to be just like her, as if she were a conduit to a greater thing. As with all children, I assumed that I would live with my mother and father in peaceful Magdala for the rest of my life. That she and I would brush our hair side-by-side every morning and bedtime, talking as much as brushing. That my father would always call me “Little Red” even after I became a woman with daughters of my own. That the fishing boats of Magdala would go out and in, day after day, as surely as the sun rises and the sea shimmers in its rays. But life is unspeakably fragile, even for lives buttressed by love. A fever swept through the countryside and snatched my mother into death so suddenly that it seemed the angels had needed her urgently in God’s presence. My father, the man everyone considered the strongest soul in Magdala, could not live with half his heart absent, even for the sake of his dearest daughter. Within a few months, I was an orphan. I was not yet twenty. The sun continued to rise and set, and the fishing boats continued to come and go, but there were no more shared brushings, no more “Little Red.” The two people who had loved me since the moment I first opened my eyes had vanished beyond my sight. My mother’s fragrance lingered on the soft linen in the carved box, and her scent roused me from memories. I whispered to her: “If I were permitted to go wherever I wished, I would come to you. I would choose to be with you in the Land of the Dead rather than without you in this land of the living. For there is no living without you.” I placed the ivory-handled hairbrush into my rucksack and kissed the necklace, bracelets, and clutch of hair as I gently returned each to the carved box. Then I opened my father’s desk and retrieved his knife, now gleaming in readiness for this day, and stowed it in the rucksack. A hairbrush for love, a knife for vengeance. I was ready. * * * As I walked along the seaside road that curved north and east from Magdala toward Capernaum, my hopes and fears of vengeance so absorbed me that I failed to notice right away that a stranger had joined me. We walked in silence, the man a step behind and a step to my side. It was he who broke the silence. “You are very quiet for someone who has just reunited with an old friend.” I continued several steps before I realized he had spoken, and another few steps as I considered his bewildering sentence. Just another man, I thought. I’ve rebuffed many like him in Magdala. Shaking my head as I walked, I answered, “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.” “Where are you going, Mary?” he asked. I stopped in mid-stride, and the stranger continued a few paces before turning around. I examined him for long seconds. How could this stranger know my name? His face was unfamiliar. I shook my head again. “I don’t know you. How do you know my name?” His eyes brightened. “I told you. You and I are old friends,” he repeated. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. We were both quite young when my mother and father visited your inn. They’ve told me that even then you had your mother’s red hair.” I frowned and searched my memory. Who was this puzzling stranger who knew my name and claimed to be an old friend? He waved his hand. “Come, let’s keep walking together toward Capernaum. I’ll keep you company.” “Stop!” I shouted. “Stop! Not another step! How do you know I’m walking to Capernaum? I’ve not told you where I’m going.” “Well, I’m walking to Capernaum. You walk with me then,” he said with an amused smile. “I have friends who live there.” He searched my face. “I’ve been invited to attend a dinner-party there tonight.” I froze as if I’d fallen from a Magdala fishing boat into a wintry sea. That’s it! That’s how he knows my name! “You’re one of Simon’s friends, aren’t you?” I lashed out at him. “Aren’t you? You’ve been spying on me in Magdala.” “No, I assure you Simon does not consider me a friend. In fact, he looks at me as a threat, and in one sense he’s right.” He stopped and looked out to sea. “Simon is a violent man. He thinks that violence is the path to greatness. He doesn’t realize he is walking on false ground.” I clutched my rucksack, feeling its contents. False ground! I thought. Is that what I’m walking on? “Wait,” I blurted. “When did you visit my father’s inn? Did you know my mother?” “In a sense, yes,” he said. “She was very kind to my own mother when I was born. Even today, years later, my mother remembers the innkeeper and his wife with affection and gratitude. Both your mother and father were kind and good.” “And there’s something you should know,” he added softly. “You and I both were on your uncle’s list.” I couldn’t breathe. I knew his next words before he voiced them. The man stepped close. “My mother’s name is Mary,” he said. “But you know that, don’t you? Your dear mother told you all her stories.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Dear child, don’t you think your mother’s hairbrush is too precious to be in a rucksack with a knife? And you are too precious, too loved, too beautiful to hold such an ugly tool of hatred. Would you let me help you?” “I can’t,” I breathed. “I can’t.” “Yes, you can. You brim with your mother’s heart. Remember all that she put in the ivory box. Let me help you.” I could not look into his eyes. “I… want… to… kill… him!” I rasped through clenched jaws. He did not let go of my shoulders. “If you kill him, Mary, the knife will pierce your own heart. And you will become as evil as Simon.” I shuddered, breathing in soft gasps. He cupped my chin so that I looked into his eyes. “You are your mother’s daughter, like a star plucked from an angel’s wing. Like her, on the outside you have her red hair, and on the inside, where it really matters, you have her beautiful spirit. Let me help you.” He eased the rucksack from my shoulder and pulled out the knife. I couldn’t move. Stepping back, he flung the knife far into the sea. As it splashed into the waves, I gasped and collapsed to my knees in the pebbles of the road, weeping for my mother, weeping for my father, and weeping for the hate that had blackened my heart. The man gently lifted me to my feet. “Mary, child, you are forgiven all your hatred and hopelessness. Put away your misery and madness. Now you can sing and dance as when you were a little girl. Do you remember?” He pulled me forward. “Come,” he said. “I have friends I want you to meet. It’s a fisherman’s house,” he laughed, “but clean and welcoming.” He peered into the sky as if he had seen something beyond the seabirds that soared above the sea. He laughed. “Your mother is teaching the angels to dance.” Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith, Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023) Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023) By Joe Benevento For our trip to Ain Karin to visit Elizabeth we had taken what is called the “trade route,” which goes through lots of hills and passes through Samaria. It’s a little shorter in terms of distance, but a more athletic trek. With my wife very pregnant (we didn’t know exactly how pregnant, since the Holy Spirit is a very subtle lover), I thought it best to travel the river route instead, taking us from the Jezreel Valley to that of the Jordan River, before the trek up from Jericho to the hills of Jerusalem, just a few miles north of Bethlehem. Mary agreed that less time in the steep hills made sense, and the weather in the valley might also be a little milder. With all the craziness of so many people needing to travel (it seemed like hardly anyone in our town had actually been born there – Joachim and Anna themselves were from Sepphoris and would have to make the short trek there to be registered), Joachim could not procure a camel for us. Really, he had waited too long to try, assuming that we would not need to go. We had to settle instead for a donkey, but I was grateful that Mary would thereby not have to walk the entire way. We hoped to join a caravan for a good part of the journey, since we were headed toward Jerusalem, but the trip to the little town of Bethlehem we would be making on our own. The benefit of a caravan of course lies with the idea of safety in numbers; opportunistic highwaymen were sure to be ready to pounce on any of the many people who all now had to travel at once, like crocodiles waiting to ambush their prey who had come to the river to drink. But not all reptiles reside in the same river, and not all thieves await in ambush only. One of our neighbors, someone who hated my father-in-law for having been bested by him in more than one business deal, had put himself somehow in charge of the caravan headed toward Jerusalem. This man owned a small herd of camels, and as everyone knows, camels can cover much more ground in a day than our little light-gray donkey could manage. (Mary had decided to name the beast Sarah, even though I was pretty sure he was a gelded male.) This camel king also was renting tents and other supplies to people who needed them, so no one was in a position to argue with him. No one stood up for us, then, when he refused to let us join his group. “That miserable beast of yours, the best Joachim could do for his only child, and in such a state? I’m sorry, but I can’t put so many others to discomfort and days of added travel just so you can try to keep up with my camels.” “And, of course,” I responded, “the faster you get to Jerusalem, the faster you can get back, to overcharge the next band of travelers.” “Insults cost a man nothing, craftsman, but without a camel, you’ll not travel with us.” And so it was that Mary and I had to travel all the way to Bethlehem by ourselves, with only a skinny, gray donkey to accompany us. “The Most High will be with us the whole time, protecting his son and the earthly parents he has chosen for him,” Mary predicted, with a wan smile. “Tell that to the wild beasts, the highwaymen and the high hills near Jerusalem,” I muttered to myself.” “What did you say, my husband?” Mary asked. “We sure could use the help,” I answered her with a smile only someone as trusting as Mary could have believed was authentic. The first few days of the trip, we made excellent time, by my estimation more than ten miles per day. The weather was comfortably cool, the donkey cooperative, the nights in our small tent not unreasonably cold. Still, Mary was large with child, and no matter how gentle her donkey and flat the terrain, it was difficult for her to travel at all. And of course I could not walk but so far each day, particularly since our water supply was to be preciously guarded and our traveling food – flat bread, figs, dates and nuts – not especially sustaining. Even so, being alone with Mary, witnessing her quiet faith and her cherished assurances that all would be well, could not help but make me proud of this woman I had been blessed with. The third day we had rain. We tried walking through it, but as we traveled it got worse, both the amount of water and the velocity of the wind, so that the footing became treacherous and the donkey uncooperative, no matter how Mary coaxed him. She decided we had to stop, for the beast’s sake. This decision was made easier by the appearance of a small cave that seemed, from a distance, to be big enough to shelter the three of us, and, upon our arrival, proved to be so. I feared at first it could be the den of a wild animal, but aside from some sleeping bats hanging like dark ornaments at the top of the structure, there were no other tenants. “You see, my husband, how our Lord provides. Just when we need more shelter than our tent offers, this cave appears, a kind of welcoming miracle.” To me, of course, a dank, dark enclosure, which needed to be shared with a very wet donkey, whose smell combined seamlessly with piles of bat guano, hardly seemed welcoming or miraculous. Still, there was no need to badger a pregnant woman with my complaints. “Yes, Mary. I only hope the Lord of Hosts will continue to provide when we reach Bethlehem. I’ve had no word from my brother in more than a year now and can’t be certain he will be ready to take us in when we arrive.” “Remember, Joseph, the words of David, the psalm that begins: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ and ends ‘Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ Wherever we go, carrying the Son of the Most High with us, we will dwell in the house of the Lord. Like David, we need fear no evil.” Mary was no fool. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t feeling the discomfort as I was; in fact, she was feeling it far more, all those months along with the Holy Spirit’s doings. Still, her faith did not waver. She comforted me; she comforted the donkey. The bats did not molest her as they woke up that night and began their hunts. We rested in more comfort than I imagined possible, though I could not take from my head the delay the rain had caused us and how much further we still had to travel. The next two days, as we entered the Jordan River Valley, the weather got colder, a bit unusual for the first days of the spring season, but nothing beyond belief. And the cold spurred us on to try to walk faster, so we made good time again. The river was also a good source of water for us, though I worried about the possibility of a crocodile attacking as I filled our water receptacles. I wished I had time to do some fishing, something I have always enjoyed since my boyhood. A fish would have been a nice variant to our meals of bread and dried fruit, but time constraints and my fear of crocodiles kept me happy that we still had some pistachios. Of course lions, wolves and bears were not impossible in the region we were traveling through. When we camped at night, I kept an ear out for any unusual sounds, including fearful complaints from Sarah, since I assumed a donkey’s hearing and instincts would be more acute than my own. I slept with one eye open, not the best way to rest on a journey. It was Mary who first noticed the jackals. When we stopped to rest one late afternoon on the sixth day of the journey, she pointed them out to me, only two of them, resting as we were, perhaps thirty yards away. Though they have a reputation for aggression and treachery, they are not known for attacking humans, but I worried they might think our smallish donkey a slower antelope and try to take him down. The donkey itself seemed unconcerned, though, so I decided not to worry until, upon taking up our walk again, the two jackals also got up and followed at a pace quick enough to keep up with us, but not enough to gain much ground. They seemed content to follow us, and they continued into the night, so that even as I was setting up our tent, I could see them at a distance, watching us. When I pointed this out to Mary, she seemed unconcerned. “Aren’t you worried about having these animals, famous for their cunning, following us day and night?” I asked. “They live as God had made them to live,” Mary responded. “And remember what it says in Lamentations, ‘Even the jackals draw out the breast, they nurse their young ones.’ Perhaps this pair is like us, husband and wife; perhaps they too are awaiting a child.” “Let’s hope it’s not our child they await,” I muttered to myself, not willing to alarm someone so comfortable in her seeming inability to be alarmed. The night grew cold. I thought the Jordan Valley was protected from the worst weather by the hills around it, but the howling wind and dropping temperatures had not heard the same reports. It would have been difficult to keep a fire going, and since I had nothing to cook, it hardly seemed worth trying. I thought of huddling for warmth with my wife, but I knew, even under these conditions, that embracing her would kindle my desire like dry tinder to a flame, so I sheltered her as best I could and shivered a distance away from her. I had been sleeping fitfully all night, but had managed, I think, some hours of sleep, and sensed somehow that dawn was approaching as I drifted off again. Suddenly, I awakened to the sound of our donkey. At first I hoped I was dreaming and did nothing, but the protestations grew louder, and Mary awoke too and said, “Something is wrong with Sarah; I’d better go and see about it.” “Stay inside, woman,” I told her more gruffly than I intended, but there wasn’t any way I would allow her to endanger herself, no matter how protected she thought she was. I grabbed my walking staff and approached the lingering darkness. Even as I stepped out, I heard the sounds of animals scurrying away and heard a kind of happy greeting from Sarah. Then I stepped on something a bit warm and certainly furry in the dark. I jumped back startled, but there was no reason for fear. When I reached down to discover what I had stepped upon, I found a large rabbit, newly killed, and then another close by. Just then the first shafts of sunlight appeared in the sky. Mary had edged out of the tent by now and was gently stroking Sarah. “I must have scared those jackals away from their kill as I came out. What luck – we’ll have meat for breakfast – meat to feed that son growing in your belly.” “Praise the Lord, oh my soul,” Mary said, hardly in the way of a direct response. Then she quoted Moses: “He will give you meat to eat in the evening and bread to satisfy you in the morning because he has heard your complaints against him.” What point was there in mentioning that this was meat in the morning, that we had brought our own bread, which was barley, not manna, and that these two dead animals were rabbits, not quail? She believed the rabbits a gift from the Most High; I’m sure she even believed the two jackals were guardian angels that had been sent to deliver breakfast to us, and not just a few unlucky predators scared off a kill. I was too hungry to argue with her. Even the wind had died down, so that my fire was easy to start; its red-yellow flames matching the glory of the rising sun. And we had our meat with our bread that beautiful morning. And the jackals were nowhere to be found. A few days more, and we approached Jerusalem. Mary had begun to complain about pains we feared could mean the onset of labor but prayed were the “false labor” her mother had warned her about. It was odd to hope for something false, but the idea of having our child in a tent, far away still from any possible help, was too scary to consider, though that of course did not stop me from considering it enough to make sleep almost impossible. Of course, we now also had to deal with a very different terrain than the Jordan River Valley, with hills that were challenging enough under normal circumstances, but really worrisome for someone in charge of a wife heavy with God’s child. That little donkey Sarah, though, was surprisingly tough, capable and more patient and cooperative than any of the donkeys of my past experience. And Mary was ever trusting in the Most High’s process, whatever it would be. She seemed certain we would have our baby in Bethlehem, and the idea of it didn’t bother her even a little bit. We arrived in the town of my birth mid-morning of the eleventh day of our travels. The plan was to get through the census-taking, then get to my brother’s house before evening. My parents had died years before, and my other siblings no longer resided in the little town, but my much older brother Heli had a nice home, and his children were grown and out of the house. Thus, I assumed he could make room for me, though I hadn’t had the chance to communicate with him about our visit, since the whole idea of actually going to Bethlehem when Mary was so far along was not anything I had expected. Still, my kind, older brother and his wife would surely be glad to see us and might even find a measure of happiness in witnessing the birth of their new nephew. The Romans had set up a make-shift census reporting station in the town’s modest marketplace, in a building usually reserved for the sale of livestock. Many people were lined up outside the building, and I was certain the Romans were having a good laugh over treating us Jews like animals. Thankfully, they intended no imminent slaughter, but they had well-armed, brutal-looking soldiers stationed to remind us they were in command, even in David’s city. The person behind us looked familiar; when he noticed me looking at him, at first he seemed offended, but then a sparkle of recognition flashed in his eyes, and he said, “Joseph, Joseph, son of Jacob the craftsman? Is it really you?” “Yes, Saul, it is,” I said, as I recognized one of my father’s oldest friends. He must have been eighty years old, but there he was, forced to wait in line with the rest of us by these unkind pagans. “It’s wonderful to see you, though too bad it’s for such a ridiculous reason, to stand in line here to be counted like sheep,” Saul said. He was old, but his eyes were still bright. He stood un-stooped, and his hair was long, full and only partially white. “I myself had to journey all the way from Hebron for this nonsense.” “And we from Nazareth,” I reported. “From Nazareth, and with a wife great with child? Why didn’t you just stay home?” “This is my wife, Mary. She felt it was best to obey the law and not to start out the new child’s life with any potential trouble from these men,” I said, pointing to the armed thugs on either side of our line, “Besides, it will be a good opportunity to visit with my brother and his wife.” “Your brother?” Saul shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing your brother here.” “And why is that?” Mary asked, with maybe a slight hint of concern. “I hate to have to be the one to tell you, but your brother left yesterday, just hours after he got through this census.” “Left for where? And why?” I asked, frantic with the thought of having no place to stay. “Believe it or not, he is headed for Egypt, where he hears they have much need for craftsmen. After Hannah died, he had nothing here to hold him back, nothing but sad memories of better times. Plus his one son is already there.” “My sister-in-law is dead? Why wasn’t I informed?” I asked, stunned, wondering how much of my sadness was for my brother and how much for myself. “Who can say? I myself don’t live here anymore. I just happened to see him as he was preparing to depart.” To be truthful, my brother and I had never been close, so I wasn’t shocked that he would leave without sending me word. Still, I had counted on his shelter and on his kind wife’s help with childbirth, and now we would have no place to stay if the child were ready to be born. Mary was convinced the Most High’s progeny had to be born in Bethlehem, but where in this town would that now be? My distraction over the bad news Saul had delivered left us dawdling in line. The Roman guard didn’t care for any disruption of order. “Get moving, Jew,” he scolded me, the “get moving” part in fractured Aramaic, but the “Jew” in Latin, “Iudeaus” one of the only Latin words I knew, since whenever it came from a Roman mouth it sounded more like a curse than the name of my people. “What’s the hurry?” Saul asked, in a friendly way. “A little gap in the line won’t cause any problems,” he reasoned. “Silence, Jew!” was all the guard responded, with a threatening gesture toward his sheathed sword. Saul and I knew better than to speak back. We moved up to fill in the small gap in the line. After similar mistreatment and more than an hour’s wait, we finally took our turn with the census taker and were allowed to depart. But where to? I asked Mary as we headed back to where we had tethered Sarah. “The Most High will provide. Even in this little town of Bethlehem, there must be a place or two for travelers.” “I don’t even know where to begin to look,” I responded, trying to make my voice sound calm, but certain I was failing. “Well, my husband, we must begin our search. I think the baby might be with us before the night has ended.” This was Mary’s gentle way to say she was having pain – labor pain. I had to find a place for her and very soon. Joe Benevento's stories, poems, essays and reviews have appeared in about 300 places, including Poets & Writers, Bilingual Review, St. Anthony Messenger and Prairie Schooner. Benevento's most recent novel My Perfect Wife, Her Perfect Son is his 15th book overall in poetry and fiction. He retired this past May after 40 years as a Professor of English at Truman State University.
'The Way to Bethlehem' is an adaptation of a chapter from Joe's new novel, My Perfect Wife, Her Perfect Son (Histria Books), about the Holy Family from the viewpoint of St. Joseph. The novel can be purchased here, and all author royalties are being donated in perpetuity to Catholic Charities of Central and Northern Missouri, an organisation that 'helps those in need regardless of faith, culture or situation'. By Sandro F. Piedrahita A Spanish priest leads an African prince in suicidal despair on a journey to Christ. “I consecrate myself to God till death, looking on myself henceforth as a slave whose whole office lies in being at the service of his Master.” Saint Pedro Claver Incensed, incensed! Padre Pedro tries to control his ire, lest it be a sin. He cannot believe how horribly the slaves are treated, so much worse than animals. He addresses the captain who has brought them to Cartagena, making no effort to disguise his anger. “If you want to rip them from the liberty of their land, then at a minimum you might treat them humanely when you bring them on their voyage of doom.” “They are blacks without souls,” the captain responds. “They are not baptized Christians. They pray to pagan gods.” “Of course they have souls,” Padre Pedro responds emphatically. “They are made in the image and likeness of God! And you should be concerned about the state of your own soul at this moment. Torturing these innocent men and women for profit will take you far from Heaven!” “Look, father, I did not let you come on board to preach to me. You said you wanted to take care of the sick Negroes and baptize some of the others. So have at it! I don’t need to hear you preach.” Father Pedro looks at the crowded compartment at the bottom of the ship in disbelief. There is barely any space for the Africans to stand, and all the men are shackled together in pairs, sweating in the preternatural heat. There are feces all over the floor, and many are visibly ill, their bodies covered in ulcers or bleeding pustules. There is one man lying on the floor, his left leg obviously suffering from gangrene, and Padre Pedro immediately baptizes him and gives him the last rites before directing two of his assistants, black men he had brought as interpreters, to take him from the vessel to the nearest public hospital run by a group of Carmelite nuns. The next thing Padre Pedro does is give the captives some water, as well as some bread and cheese he has brought with him. When he approaches a young woman cowering in a corner, she tries to move away from him defensively, her face full of fright, and utters something in terror in her native tongue. The black interpreter Padre Pedro has brought with him tells the priest that the woman has asked if he is the man who has come to eat her. “No, little child,” Padre Pedro responds through the interpreter. “I have come to ease your pain, to quench your thirst with the living water.” “What do you mean?” the black woman asks in her African language. “I have come to baptize you in Christ. I know that the Middle Passage is horrible, that you have suffered greatly, more than any human being should suffer, but in a strange and inexplicable way, some good may come from this. Through your suffering, you may come to know the Lord who loves you and has suffered with you. And that is an inestimable bounty.” The woman has no idea what the priest is saying, but her eyes are suddenly less afraid. “Ask if she has ever heard of Jesus,” Padre Pedro tells his interpreter. The woman responds that she has not. “Jesus is the living God, the one who has created everything. He died for you on the Cross many centuries ago.” Padre Pedro realizes she does not understand him. It is always a challenge to try to explain the Faith to recently arrived slaves. Indeed, Padre Pedro thinks, many Spanish Catholics fail to understand the Cross even after years of instruction, sometimes at the peril of their own souls. “Ask her if she believes there is a spirit who has created everything,” he says to the interpreter. “Yes,” the woman answers in Yoruba. “There are many spirits who have created the heavens and the earth, the animals and the humans.” “Well, I am here to tell you there is only one spirit that has created all.” Padre Pedro turns to his interpreter. “Is there a word for God in her language?” “Olorun,” the interpreter answers. “Well, tell her that there is only one Olorun. That there are no other gods other than the One True God. And that He came to earth, became man, and was crucified for our sins.” “There is no word for ‘crucified,’ in Yoruba,” responds the interpreter. “The closest word to ‘sin’ is ‘ese.’” “Tell her that Olorun was killed as a sacrifice to heal the ‘ese’ of every man and woman who turns to Him.” “I don’t think she is going to understand that,” the interpreter tells the priest. “So many men do not understand it,” replies Padre Pedro. “But tell her anyway. By dint of repetition, someday she shall understand. And hopefully she shall throw herself into the abyss of God’s Mercy when she does so.” * * * As Padre Pedro and his interpreters make their way through the throngs, they notice that one man is still in shackles, while all the rest have been rid of their chains in preparation to disembark. He is a very black man, young and muscular, with fury in his eyes. “Why is this man still in shackles while the others are not?” Padre Pedro asks the captain of the ship. “He rebelled in open sea,” the captain responds. “Attacked one of the sailors and then threw himself into the ocean. If our nets hadn’t caught him, he would not be here today. Then he refused to eat, wishing to commit suicide. But we opened his mouth with a speculum oris and the help of a thumbscrew and forced him to eat the yams we had for him. He is a very valuable slave, strong and healthy. We shall obtain a good sum for him at auction. We couldn’t let him just die.” “I wish to speak with him,” Padre Pedro says. Since the African captive also speaks Yoruba, the interpreter can help the priest communicate with him. “What is your name?” the priest asks. “Adesola,” responds the man. The interpreter tells the priest that the name means “a child crowned with wealth.” “Tell him that I am here to help him, to ease his pain.” Adesola laughs derisively. “You can do nothing for me,” he says in his native language. “I was born a prince, and I shall never be a slave. As soon as I am unshackled, as soon as I have the opportunity, I shall take my life.” “Oh, Lord,” says the priest, suddenly alarmed. He realizes this man is in greater need of him than all the rest. “That would be the greatest of sins. Do you understand that?” Adesola laughs again. “Who are you to tell me how to lead my life? Don’t you see my life is no longer worth living?” “You must not lapse into despair,” says the priest. Then he turns to his interpreter. “Is there a word for ‘despair’ in Yoruba?” “There is a word for despair in every language,” replies the interpreter. “Then tell him there is always hope. That hope in God is an antidote to despair.” But Adesola makes a sign with his hand, as if to say the priest’s words are nonsense. “If Olorun has let this happen to me,” says Adesola, “then I no longer believe in Olorun. The only choice is death.” Padre Pedro suddenly hollers to the ship’s captain. “Come here, I need to speak to you!” “What is it?” the captain asks. “Are you going to give me another speech? The man is still in shackles because he’s potentially violent.” “That is not why I’m calling you,” says the priest. “I need to know how much it costs to purchase this captive. I want to take him with me.” “The apostle to the slaves wants to buy a slave? Surely you surprise me, Padre Pedro. I thought you spent all your time railing against the institution of slavery. I thought you loved the blacks more than the whites themselves. Don’t you come to the port every time a slave ship arrives? Don’t you kiss their wounds?” “Don’t worry about that,” flashes Padre Pedro. “What is your price?” “For a slave as strong and young as this, I’d say five-hundred pesos.” “Five-hundred pesos?” replies Padre Pedro incredulously. “It would take me months to collect such an amount.” “I’m sorry, father,” the captain responds. “Maybe you can buy an older captive, if you need a servant. But this young buck will cost you quite a sum.” “What if I pay you the amount a little at a time? I don’t know. I can collect alms. I know some devout Catholics who are rich. Maybe they will help me collect the money for you.” “Why this insistence, father? There are plenty of slaves who are less costly.” “None of them needs me as much as this one does. Don’t you see he is in danger of perdition?” “I don’t know what you are talking about,” the captain answers. “You are imagining things.” “Let me take him with me. I shall have the money for you within a week.” “I don’t know, father. We’re talking about a great deal of money.” “You have my pledge, as a man and as a priest. I shall pay you the full amount in seven days.” “If you say so, father. But if you don’t come up with the money, I’ll have to send the appropriate authorities to reclaim the slave.” “All right,” says the priest. Then he tells his interpreter to address Adesola. “Tell him that I have purchased him. That I will treat him kindly and give him all the liberty he needs. And once I am sure of his eternal salvation, I shall set him free.” The interpreter tells Adesola what the priest has said, and Adesola laughs again. “Even if you set me free, what future will I have? I was born a prince, and the most I can be in this land, even if you liberate me, is a wretched working man.” A week later, Padre Pedro, true to his word, paid off the full amount that was due. Henceforth he would live in his own home with Adesola, who would at once be Padre Pedro’s slave and master. Not for nothing had Padre Pedro sworn, as soon as he was made a priest, that thereafter he would become the “slave to the slaves.” * * * “Prince Adesola.” Padre Pedro, speaking through his interpreter, addresses his new slave as soon as he enters the room where the black man is housed. The priest is bearing a large crucifix in one of his arms and a depiction of Heaven in the other. The black man is startled, not expecting his noble background to be recognized by the white man who has bought him. “Yes,” Adesola answers. There is anger on his face. “What do you want?” “I have come to teach you certain things,” Padre Pio responds. “But first I need to learn about you. You say that you are a prince.” “A very powerful prince. My father commanded an army of more than a thousand men. And I did not live in a hut, as all you white men think. I lived in a palace. I bore a golden crown on my head, and I wielded a golden scepter. I had fifteen concubines.” “How were you captured?” “We lost a great battle, and I became a slave to our rivals, just like my father and mother. They sold us to the Spanish merchants. I do not know the fate of my parents. All I know is that they were not on the same ship that brought me here.” “Well, I want to teach you about another prince, the Prince of Peace. He was also the son of a great Father, the creator of all things.” “I’m not interested in your faith. I once had my own. But all the divine spirits have failed me. Please just leave me alone. Or order me to do what you want. I am your captive after all.” “My purpose is not to enslave you. My mission is to convert you. That is why I purchased you at such great cost.” “You can’t get inside my head!” Adesola replies angrily. “You have bought my body, but my mind is another matter.” “The Lord Christ died for you, for the African as well as the European. I promise you that if you receive Him in Baptism, your load will be less heavy. He’ll help you bear the pain of living in exile in a strange land, far from your principality.” “I have no idea what you’re saying, that someone died for me. Who could you be talking about? Many men died for me in battle, but we were defeated. The only respite for me is death.” “No, no, and then again no!” Padre Pedro is suddenly animated. He shows Adesola the picture of Heaven and tells him that if he is faithful and courageous, he will arrive there and have more riches than any earthly prince, that his suffering in Cartagena will be a long-lost memory. “I’m going to take my life, whether you want me to or not. I don’t see why you really care. To you, I am just another black man, even if you address me as ‘prince.’ Let me jump into a river, and forget about me.” “I understand your despair,” responds the priest. “But there will soon come a time when things will be better. I promise you that, Prince Adesola. God is always with you, even when no one else is.” “God! God! You talk about your white God! I have never seen Him. He certainly wasn’t with me on that ship that traversed the seas and brought me to the land of the white man. He wasn’t there when many of my men died of dehydration, when they were beaten, when so many of our women were taken violently by white sailors. How do you expect me to believe in a beneficent God when all I’ve seen is horror?” Padre Pedro does not fail to recognize that Adesola is a man of great intelligence. The priest thinks that will present him with certain obstacles, but perhaps also with opportunities. Having dealt with heretics, Muslims and pagan slaves, he knows the most intelligent are the most difficult to convert, but that once they are converted, their zeal is all the greater. “What if I were to tell you that your life on earth is but a breath? That your monstrous suffering on that ship for three months is like a grain of sand in the immensity of time? I just want you to think about it. And let me leave this crucifix with you and place it on the wall above your bed. I want you to contemplate it, to think about the sheer brutality of the crucifixion of our gentle God. That is what the Christ was willing to endure for you and for me, for the salvation of all men, black and white alike.” “Are you saying this dead man nailed to the wood is the white man’s God?” “No, that’s not what I am saying. I’m saying He is the God of all.” “I still think it would be better if I were dead,” responds the black man. “I shall return tomorrow, Prince Adesola.” * * * The months pass. Padre Pedro continues to visit Adesola every day in his bedroom, trying to teach him things of God. Adesola’s intelligence never ceases to astonish the zealous priest. In half a year, Adesola has learned how to converse in Spanish almost fluently and can even argue about complicated philosophical questions. He still believes his end must be suicide but has lost some of his bottomless rancor when he speaks to Padre Pedro. The slave’s arguments in favor of killing himself have become more logical than visceral. Since he believes there is no God and no afterlife, and human life is full of sorrow, why not hang himself from a rope or throw himself from a cliff into the sea? After all, he will never be a prince again, never lord over the masses, so why continue with the charade? He was not born to be a servant. Padre Pedro surmises that Adesola’s greatest sin is pride. The Catalan priest fully understands that pride is what prevents the former prince from accepting Jesus because the only way to accept Jesus is through humility. And Padre Pedro has never been as flummoxed in his efforts to convert a slave as in his attempt to convert Prince Adesola. With the passage of time, Padre Pedro realizes that his recalcitrant slave has grown to admire him and hopes that will allow him to make inroads into his soul. Adesola knows that whenever a slave ship docks into the harbor of Cartagena, Padre Pedro is always ready to welcome the Africans, bringing them biscuits, beef jerky, cheese, ham, tobacco, and sometimes a bit of brandy. The African prince also realizes that Padre Pedro has baptized thousands upon thousands of slaves into the Catholic faith, sometimes right there on the boat when they arrive and often during his many visits to the Africans in the slave quarters where they are forcefully domiciled. It is not a secret that rather than sleeping in the mansions of the slave owners, Padre Pedro sleeps in the huts of his beloved black men when he goes to the plantations to inspect how they are being treated. And Adesola also knows that Padre Pedro administers Confession to hundreds of Africans in church every week and angrily reproves any slave owner who tries to force slave men and women to couple merely to produce more slaves. Padre Pedro demands that African men and women unite in Christian marriage only and is not shy about telling the slaves that to do anything differently is a great sin. But despite all this, the proud Adesola refuses to believe the teachings of the man he has grown to admire and in secret continues to plot his suicide. At times, he has held a knife in his left hand and been tempted to do what Padre Pedro calls the unforgiveable but at the last moment has resisted the strong temptation. Other times he has thought of simply walking into the sea and giving up. The truth is that he has never forgotten his beloved Africa, the dances about a campfire, the sound of the drums beating in unison, the days of hunting for boars in the tropical jungle. And everything he remembers fills him with a deep melancholy that he cannot shake. In the morning, he wakes up sad and in the evening falls asleep just as sad. The only thing that breaks up the monotony of his depression is the work which Padre Pedro has asked him to perform in the fields – not because you are a slave, the priest has told him, but because work is good for the state of your soul. Padre Pedro has often heard Adesola’s arguments against the divinity of the Christ in other men, mostly disbelieving Spaniards, Dutchmen and Englishmen, but never in the mouth of an African. Perhaps, thinks the priest, Adesola’s intelligence is what will lead to his perdition. How could an all-powerful and all-loving God allow the existence of evil? inquires the princely Adesola. How could a man who is God Himself suffer the humiliation of the Cross? Padre Pedro tries to answer the questions with arguments both simple and complex, but they never satisfy the young African. Padre Pedro thinks Adesola is stubborn and proud, but he chalks up his radical unbelief to his relentless despair. He is in a strange land, without kinsmen or friends, condemned to duties far beneath his intelligence. Perhaps, thinks the priest, the best thing for Adesola would be to find a woman to marry and raise a family of his own, but to accept the sacrament of marriage, he would first have to be baptized. And the gallant Prince Adesola steadfastly refuses to do so. Since Padre Pedro fails to persuade Adesola through reason and logic, he turns, as ever, to relentless prayer. * * * What truly begins to soften Adesola’s heart is when Padre Pedro brings Carlitos to sleep in his own bed in the Jesuit novitiate. Indeed, the African prince finds the priest’s conduct astonishing, as do most of the other priests and novices who live in the same home. In fact, many of the other priests violently protest, clamoring that Padre Pedro’s excessive zeal is endangering them all, as there is a possibility of contagion. But Padre Pedro will have nothing of it. Not only does he put Carlitos in his bed, but the priest sleeps on the floor every night, never ceasing to pray for his recovery. Carlitos’ condition is gruesome. He has pink bloody pustules all over his black face, almost completely covering his eyes such that the man is nearly blind, and he is constantly drooling, the saliva falling from his lips that are also preternaturally swollen. He has bloody ulcers all over his arms, indeed all over his body, and he can barely walk. Adesola was present when Carlitos first arrived, with Padre Pedro trying to lift him along, and Adesola was enlisted by the priest to help him carry his fellow black man into the priest’s room. The African prince’s first reaction was a deep revulsion, the instinct to vomit, and yet Padre Pedro’s heroic charity was a better lesson to Adesola than the priest’s endless sermons about how the true Christian must carry Christ’s Cross. For the first time, Adesola had a glimmer of understanding of the priest’s lectures, when the priest had told him that in helping bear the Cross ourselves or those of others, we are serving Christ himself. There was a frisson of recognition in Adesola’s soul: perhaps in helping carry Carlitos, he was helping the disfigured black man carry his own Cross, just like Simon of Cyrene had helped the Christ carry His Cross during His ascent to Calvary. Soon Adesola learned the full story. Padre Pedro, as often, was visiting a plantation to make sure that the blacks were treated well, administering Confession, and performing marriage ceremonies for those slaves who were living in sinful union. When he approached one of the huts, the slave owner told him to avoid it, for it housed a man with a pestilent disease that might be spread to others. This only served to pique Padre Pedro’s curiosity, and he decided to enter the sick man’s abode. What he found there was astonishing: a black man covered in his own blood, seemingly with no hope of remission. Apparently the slave master and the other slaves had left him there to die, without even administering the last sacraments to him. Padre Pedro asked the man if he wanted to go through with his Confession, and the dying man nodded in agreement. “What is your name?” the priest asked. “They call me Carlitos,” the man answered, speaking with great difficulty. “Tell me your sins that they may be forgiven.” “Oh, father,” Carlitos answered, still struggling. “I have had many concubines throughout my life, more than I can remember. I had a lawful wife, bless her soul, but I was not faithful to her. And despite being a slave, I had a great pride. I thought I was the strongest and most handsome of them all. And now look at me! A monster who frightens all the others!” “Not in the eyes of God,” Padre Pedro responded. “In the Lord’s mind your sins are far uglier than your bloody pustules. But now you have confessed them, and they are entirely forgotten.” The priest immediately asked to speak with the slave’s owner, a man who seemed otherwise kind but had no idea what to do with the diseased African. “What are your plans for him?” Padre Pedro asked. “To let him die,” the slave master responded. “I even called a physician from Cartagena, and he told me there is no hope of recovery. And I don’t want the other slaves getting sick. So I’ve decided to simply let the Lord take him.” “Carlitos will not die of this disease,” Padre Pedro replied, surprising the slave owner. “Of that you can be assured.” “I don’t know how you can say that. The physician who gave his diagnosis is one of the best in Nueva Granada.” “Well, I tell you it will not happen. Come, have your men take him into the wagon. I shall take him with me to the Jesuit quarters.” * * * Padre Pedro asks Adesola to help care for Carlitos while the priest goes to the port to welcome the slaves arriving in slave ships. Padre Pedro is not only thinking of alleviating the suffering of the disfigured slave, but also of mending the soul of the proud prince. He knows that acts of goodness, just like acts of concupiscence, can become a habit when repeated and that acts of charity are pleasant in the eyes of the Lord and can even overcome the power of sin. At first, Adesola balks at the request. “How can you give me such a task, knowing the man might be contagious?” “I wouldn’t worry about that,” the priest answers. “If God wants you to fall ill, it will happen even if you are a thousand leagues far from the diseased. And if God wants you to remain healthy, it will happen even if you kiss Carlitos’ bloody sores with your own lips.” “I don’t know,” answers Adesola, shaking his head. “It is an order,” Padre Pedro responds. “But not from myself, your human master, but from Him who is the Master of us all.” At first, the task is extremely difficult. Adesola wipes the bloody pustules on Carlitos’ face and arms with a white rag and feels he is about to retch. Then he does what he finds to be the most challenging: cleaning and replacing Carlitos’ soiled underpants. A prince! he thinks. A prince and now I am performing the lowliest of duties! But soon he overcomes the initial revulsion and learns to tend to Carlitos with kindness. He is surprised to learn that Carlitos comes from the same region of Africa as he and that he is fluent in Yoruba. He learns that Carlitos has two sons and a daughter, but that they were left in Cuba many years before. The African prince remembers words Padre Pedro has told him again and again as he thinks of Carlitos’ plight. “When we have nothing left but God,” the priest had taught him, “we discover that God is enough.” And slowly, gradually, Adesola’s thoughts of suicide begin to recede from his mind. He has found a purpose, even though he will not admit it even to himself. In tending to Carlitos’ extreme pain, he starts to forget his own. Yet that does not mean he is willing to be baptized and embrace the God of the white man, the God of the cruel Spanish usurper who has destroyed his life. Even though Padre Pedro is insistent, sometimes speaking to him with kindness, at other times with an obstinate anger, Adesola simply does not believe and resists the entreaties of the Catalan Jesuit priest. “Why would God allow Carlitos’ pain?” Adesola asks Padre Pedro, thinking the priest will be unable to come up with a rational answer. “To help you share it,” the priest responds, as if it went without saying. “To help you get closer to Him, even if you don’t understand.” One night, Carlitos’ condition suddenly takes a turn for the worse. Padre Pedro is at his bedside, as is Adesola. The truth is Adesola has grown to love Carlitos, with whom he has shared so many memories about their distant Africa. He no longer sees caring for the man’s monstrous disease as an imposition of his master, but as something he would do willingly, even if no one required it. So as the man vomits, Adesola softly wipes his face with a kerchief even as his own body is covered in the verdant puke. Carlitos is given to fits of coughing, and he is coughing blood. “Will he die tonight?” Adesola asks the priest. “No, he will not,” Padre Pedro responds. “Never forget the Great Physician’s skill.” Adesola and Padre Pedro spend the whole night tending to the beleaguered Carlitos. The man has a high fever, and he is sweating profusely, so much so that it seems his shirt has been seeped in water. “I thirst,” the sick black man whispers. Adesola takes a sponge dipped in water and presses it to Carlitos’ lips. “Is there nothing else we can do?” Adesola asks the priest. “He is suffering so!” “You can pray, Prince Adesola,” the priest says in a soft voice. “Pray to Jesus in Heaven and to His Blessed Mother. That should alleviate not only Carlitos’ suffering, but also your own.” “You know I don’t believe. Don’t use this moment of pain to try to convert me!” “You shall be converted in God’s good time. I think you are resisting because of your pride, but the seed has already been planted. Because charity causes joy, it is the most contagious of virtues.” The sun rises, and the lambent light falls upon Carlitos’ face. The worst is over, his fever has broken, and he has ceased to vomit. In a fortnight, he shall be healed completely. Adesola collapses on a chair and falls asleep while the tireless priest continues to pray for the two black men with whom he has shared the night. * * * Adesola resists conversion, resists the urge to pray. The power of Padre Pedro’s example is so great that the African prince often thinks of turning to Jesus on the crucifix above his bed to ask for some special favor. And Adesola has heard the rumor that Padre Pedro has even told the noblewomen of Cartagena, who complained that the Jesuit was filling the churches with smelly Negroes, that the blacks were closer to Christ than they were, for Christ’s Mercy is closest to those who suffer. But Adesola will not bow to the God of the white man, no matter what Padre Pedro says and does for the black man! Weren’t his brothers placed in chains by those who followed the same God? Weren’t they considered property in the religion of the white man? Didn’t he himself belong to Padre Pedro? And yet the urge persists. Adesola has learned something in carrying for the desperately ill Carlitos, that there can be something redemptive in suffering, that it is not devoid of meaning as he once thought. Adesola’s depression lifted rather than worsened after Carlitos was put under his care, and his thoughts of suicide are far behind him. No longer does he dream of throwing himself into the ocean or of swallowing the bitter poison. By nursing Carlitos back to health, he has learned that life is precious. Perhaps, he thinks, it is as Padre Pedro says. Perhaps the Christ was tortured on the Cross to carry all our suffering. But he quickly puts away such thoughts and lets himself fall asleep in the comfortable bed Padre Pedro has procured for him. The following morning, as he is working with slaves owned by other Jesuits, he looks up at the immense blue sky above, at the endless fields before him, at the beauty of his fellow Africans, and feels a sudden revelation. Yes, there is a God, he is sure of it this time. Who else could have created all this splendor? As he works, he is delighted by the strength of his own arms, at the steadiness of the machete, at everything he can perceive through his five senses. He breathes in the air and is invigorated, takes a drink from his canteen, and his thirst is quenched. He wants to cry out in joy to his fellow slaves that the Lord is risen! But then, like Peter on the waters, he begins to doubt. Even if there is a God, that does not prove the existence of the God of the white man. The beauty of nature is not necessarily evidence that Christ died and on the third day was resurrected. So he continues to work, works himself into exhaustion, for his thoughts have filled him with awe and dread at the same time. That night, he returns to his room in the Jesuit quarters. He looks up at the Christ above his bed, bearded, blonde-haired, and blue-eyed. Surely that is not the God of the African! But as he begins to fall asleep, he hears a voice speaking to him in Yoruba. The voice addresses him as “omo,” meaning “son” in Adesola’s native language. “Omo,” the voice repeats, “why do you resist letting me enter into your heart? Don’t you know I thirst for you?” Suddenly Adesola looks up at the crucifix and notices something has changed. The face of the Christ has turned into that of a black man, with dark skin, thick lips, and woolly hair. “Oh, why, oh why,” the voice demands, “why must you refuse me, the living water?” And then Adesola sees a bright light, a light that almost blinds him, emanating from the face of the suffering black man on the crucifix. “Lord, is it you?” Adesola asks. “Emi ni,” answers the Christ, meaning I am. “Don’t worry about the color of my skin. Isn’t it enough for you to know you are made in My image and likeness?” “I’m a sinful man,” Adesola replies. “Why would you deign to appear before me?” “I have appeared to you many times, my lowly son, but you did not recognize me. In the face of Padre Pedro, in that of Carlitos, in that of your fellow slaves, and in the face of the white man who did not scourge you.” “I was blind,” Adesola answers. “Truly I did not see you.” “Go and get baptized, confess your sins, and pledge your life to Me. I do not promise you an easy life. I promise you a life full of difficulty and sometimes sorrow. But if you steadfastly believe, if you adhere to My Commandments, I shall open the very gates of Heaven for you!” “Fiat,” says Adesola in the Yoruba language. Jeki o sele! Let it be! * * * Padre Pedro is on his deathbed. Adesola has come to pay his last respects, accompanied by his wife Carmen, his son Joaquin, and his daughter Sofia. “Thank you for coming,” the old priest says in a weak voice. “I have never forgotten you, Prince Adesola.” “I’m not a prince,” replies Adesola. “The only Prince is in Heaven with His Father and the Holy Spirit. I’m but a simple foreman working on a quarry.” “Do you enjoy your work?” the old priest asks. “I do,” Adesola responds. “Sometimes it’s difficult for me to lead the other black men who work with me, but the Lord grants me the wisdom to do so. And I have even been able to enroll my children in a special school for Negroes run by the Carmelite nuns. So I can’t complain.” “Never complain,” Padre Pedro commands. “Just pray!” 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) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) By Sandro F. Piedrahita At that time Jesus said, “I praise You, Father…for you have hidden these things from the wise and the learned, and revealed them to little children.” – Matthew 11:25 It was a single word, but nothing else needed to be said. “Alzheimer’s,” the doctor said in a professional manner, as if it was just another word, but in my mind his diagnosis was brutal and sadistic. How could a single word signify the loss of everything, the undoing of my mind? Me, a man who had always taken pride in his intelligence, professor emeritus of Italian literature, writer of many works of literary criticism and two acclaimed novels, now being told that in a few months – a year if I was lucky – I would not even remember my own name. I had feared such a verdict – I’m using the right term – when my son demanded I visit a physician to find out what was wrong with me. I had been losing my keys, forgetting where I left my glasses, misremembering telephone numbers I had known for years. But what convinced my son Carlo that I needed to be checked out was the day when he found me sitting on a sofa, my pants dripping in urine because I could not find the bathroom in my own home. He offered to take me to the hospital himself, since he feared I could no longer drive without getting lost. I put off the visit to the doctor as long as I could, but finally Carlo was exasperated and told me I could no longer delay. He scheduled an appointment, irrevocable as death. The doctor was a small, slight man with something of a lisp. I knew that he was going to give me the worst news of my life – worse even than the death of my wife Elena – and I detested him for it even before he uttered the devastating word. “Alzheimer’s,” he said. “Alzheimer’s,” he repeated. “You suffer from Alzheimer’s,” he said a third time. He spoke to me with a calm and even voice, as if telling me I was suffering from the flu. “It’s in the early stages,” he said, “but your cognition will soon deteriorate. There is no cure, but there are various forms of palliative care.” “How bad will it get? Will I completely lose my mind? Will I even be able to read?” I bombarded the doctor with one question after another, but he kept saying the same thing. “You could lose your sense of self in a year. You could lose your identity itself. I must be frank. Alzheimer’s is not a disease for the faint of heart.” I thought I detected a macabre grin on the young face of the physician, but it was probably just my imagination. He probably didn’t even realize he was being cruel. Then he suddenly left the room as if nothing had happened, as if it was just another ordinary day, when in fact he had given me a sentence worse than death. “We are going to find a place for you to live, old man,” Carlo said as soon as we left the hospital and he began to drive. “A home where kind nurses will take care of you. You’ll see. You are going to be fine.” “I am not going to be fine. Don’t talk to me as if I were a child.” “That wasn’t my intention, vecchio.” “I was thinking maybe I could move in with you,” I responded, hoping at least for a small reprieve before I was sent to a home for the hopelessly demented. “After all, Nino is off to college, and Margherita is recently married. I could just move into one of your two spare bedrooms.” “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Carlo replied in an even voice as he continued to drive. “I’m not going to make Lucia a slave to your disease. I hate to say this to you, old man, but things are going to steadily get worse. I promise you I’ll find a home where you’ll be taken care of well.” “Fine, fine,” I replied. “But putting me in a hospice can wait. I’m still in control of all my faculties. I’m as intelligent as ever and haven’t forgotten old memories. I’ve never been more lucid, even if I lose my keys from time to time.” “You’re a brilliant man, Giovanni. You always made sure everybody knew that. I remember when I was a kid and dreaded showing you my report cards. No matter how good my grades were, they were never good enough. I still remember your booming voice. ‘Don’t forget you’re the son of Doctor Giovanni Avitabile! Come back with better marks!’ And when I told you I was going to be a grade school teacher, you didn’t hide your disappointment. I guess you wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor. Or an author and professor of literature, just like you.” “I just didn’t want you to waste your intelligence. You never strived hard enough. Not everyone has to be a professional man, but that was definitely in your cards. You only had to make a minimal effort, but you refused.” “And I’m glad I did. I’ve been able to raise a family. I bought a nice home. I wouldn’t trade places with anybody. Now where were we? What do you think of the home for the aged run by the Carmelite nuns?” “I’ll pay for a nurse to come to my home and take care of me if you don’t want to take me in. I still have quite a bit in my savings account. And I still receive royalties from the books I’ve published. So don’t think of burying me in an old-age home – at least not yet.” “You can do whatever you want with your money. I’ve never asked you for a dime. But you are going to need round-the-clock care.” “I’ll give you everything if you just let me stay in your home. I don’t want to be surrounded by drooling old men and women. I don’t want to be abused by some maid who doesn’t care a whit about me. Perhaps at some point you’ll have to put me in a hospice, but not yet. And then you can take all my savings. It will be a hefty sum. I was thinking of leaving my house to the university, but if you take me in I’ll throw that in as well.” “It’s not about the money, Giovanni. You’ll really be much better off in a special home. And Lucia and I can visit you from time to time. I promise you will not be forgotten. You should just pray about it, ask the Lord for guidance.” “You know I don’t believe. I’ve always been an atheist. I know your mother raised you Catholic, but that was against my wishes.” “And I’m glad she did,” responded Carlo. “If you were a believer too, you wouldn’t be so terrified now. You’d simply put your future in God’s hands. You’ve been blessed your whole life, Giovanni, but now is the time of the Cross. It happens in every man’s life. And it would be a good idea if you had the humility to let Christ help carry your Cross.” “Well, I won’t have it. What kind of God would make me an invalid in old age, force me to lose the core of who I am? Either your God doesn’t exist or He cares very little about His creation. Why is there so much suffering in the world? If your God is loving and omnipotent all at once, why must humanity be martyred in a myriad ways?” “Why don’t you go ask your niece Nennolina?” Carlo inquired. “She is a child, and she is suffering so, but she places her hope in Christ. I hate to say this, but at her age, she understands life so much better than you do.” “She’s my goddaughter, always on my mind. As you know, I shall be at the hospital – how I hate that word – on the day of her operation. But her experience doesn’t inspire me to believe. How could a just and loving God let a little girl’s leg be amputated?” “Do you understand what that means, that she’s your goddaughter? It means that you should be teaching her about the faith, not the other way around.” “Don’t insist. Maybe your God wants me to grovel, but I won’t do it. I’ve lived a righteous life without needing to resort to prayer. If I were to meet Him, I would demand that He excuse Himself for causing humanity such constant pain.” “You can’t demand anything of God, Giovanni. You just don’t get it. Don’t you think it’s presumptuous for you to think God has to settle accounts with you, that He has to give you a private explanation of His inscrutable will?” “That’s the right word, inscrutable. What possible explanation could there be for punishing a five-year-old girl with cancer of the bone? What possible good could come from the amputation of her leg? No, your God is a phantom. He never existed and never will. And if God exists, I have no reason to trust in His munificence and grace. If he doesn’t care about five-year-old Nennolina, why would He care about an old man like me?” * * * We arrived at the hospital at eight in the morning. Nennolina’s parents were waiting for us, her mother Maria with reddened eyes after crying so much, her father Michele stoic as a rock. Father Giuseppe, whom I’d known for years as my wife’s confessor, was also there. Even at his late age, he still had the build of an athlete. Before he became a priest, he had been a professional soccer player. He probably knew of my flaws and virtues as well as anyone, and yet we never spoke about serious matters. We were allowed to visit Nennolina in the room where the operation was to take place. When she saw me, Nennolina smiled her picaresque smile and exclaimed, “I was hoping you’d be coming today, Uncle Giovanni. Today is an important day for me. I’ll be giving up my little leg to Jesus.” And then she gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek as if the day were one of celebration rather than pain. I was barely able to contain myself. I didn’t want to cry in her presence, but the truth is her innocence appalled me. What priest had convinced her she’d be sacrificing her leg to Jesus? I felt rage and at the same time a great melancholy. She noticed when a single tear – just one thick drop – fell from my left eye and told me not to worry, that everything was in God’s hands. I was inspired by her bravery, but at the same time I felt her hope was deeply misplaced. The truth is she would be a cripple for the rest of her life. And that would be assuming her cancer didn’t metastasize and spread to the rest of her body, in which case she would die as a child. At all events, it was an unmerited punishment. “You don’t need to cry, Uncle Giovanni. If God wants to grant me a miracle, I’ll grow another leg. And if He doesn’t, I’ll joyfully accept His holy will. You should know Doctor Uzzauto has told me they’ll fit me with a wonderful artificial leg. I’ll be able to walk and even run with the other children. And Jesus will be so happy. I’m offering this suffering to Him, and I will be praying for sinners. That includes you, Uncle Giovanni.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt like hugging her tightly, ripping out that traitorous cancer with my very hands. But she seemed to be happy, oblivious to the tragedy she was living through. I wanted to tell her that God was a jerk if He existed. I wanted to scream out that the universe was unfair. But I knew her faith was getting her through this horror and to open her eyes would serve no purpose. In due course, I thought, she’d understand the amputation of her leg was not a blessing but a curse. “I’m glad you think about me, Nennolina,” I said. Her mother looked at me askance, knowing I was an unbeliever. And I thought I detected some anger against me in her eyes for even contemplating that God did not exist. If God did not exist, her daughter’s suffering would be meaningless and brutal. In some dark corner of her soul, Maria hated me for even thinking that God was not with them in their pain. Then the doctor appeared, with a big smile and a red balloon. “Are you ready, signorina?” he asked in a mirthful tone. “Ready to be like Pegleg Pete,” Nennolina joked mischievously. Her innocence amazed me. “Or like the pirate Black Beard,” the doctor replied happily. “In no time we’ll have you fitted with a prosthetic leg. You’ll be tougher than the pirate.” And I hated the surgeon for his joyful tone, even though I realized he was trying to make a difficult moment as easy as possible for my Nennolina. I felt angry at his deception, although I understood it was necessary. “Why don’t we all pray now?” Father Giuseppe said. “That’s a good idea,” agreed Maria. As everyone kneeled, I said in a somewhat muffled tone. “I’d rather keep standing up.” “Aw,” Nennolina cried. “Why don’t you kneel and pray with us, Uncle Giovanni? The more people pray, the more God listens. You should know I’d rather see you pray for me rather than a thousand angels.” “Very well,” I said. “I’ll do it just for you, Nennolina.” And then I knelt next to the priest. “Don’t forget to say the words too,” Nennolina chided me. “After Father Giuseppe says the first half of the Our Father, then all of us say the second half. And we’ll do the same with the Hail Mary. Mary is the most powerful of intercessors.” “Where did you learn that big word?” I asked her. She was a five-year-old, after all. “How do you even know what an intercessor is?” “I learned it in my catechism course, Uncle Giovanni. I’m preparing for my Holy Communion, the most glorious day of my life. And Mary can be an intercessor for you too. Whatever worries you, put it in her hands, and she will take it from you and make it disappear. Is there anything that worries you, Uncle Giovanni, other than my little leg?” I felt like saying, yes, yes, damn it, I’m about to lose my mind, but said nothing and instead got on my knees to pray. It must have been more than forty years since I had mouthed the Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary, some time before I decided I was brilliant and had no need of God. * * * After about three hours of worry – three hours of prayer for everybody but me – the doctor came out of the room where the intervention had happened and ushered us into the room. When I saw Nennolina, I felt that I was about to collapse, seeing her missing a leg and yet with a broad smile on her face. “The operation was a success,” she said in her little voice triumphantly. “That’s what the doctor said.” “Does it hurt, my darling?” asked her mother. “A little bit. It’s not that bad. Pain is like fabric. The stronger it is, the more it is worth.” “Who taught you that?" I asked her. I could not believe they were the words of a little girl. “Nobody taught me that, Uncle Giovanni. Is it not obvious? God never allows us more suffering than we can bear. I am sure He was with me during my operation, and that is why all went well.” I was sure she was parroting the words of some nun or priest. How could she possibly say the operation went well? It was an amputation, after all. “God allows suffering so that we can be closer to Him,” Nennolina continued. “That’s why I’m offering my little leg to Jesus. Sure, it hurts a little bit, but never as much as Jesus did when he was crucified.” “Offer your pain to the Lord,” Father Giuseppe intervened. “It will be more precious to Him than a hundred prayers. You’ll be sharing in His own pain during the Passion.” I thought the priest was a fool. The idea that Nennolina participated in Jesus’ Passion through her suffering seemed preposterous. I could never understand why there should be any suffering at all if God could prevent it all through the snap of His fingers. At all event, I said nothing. I knew the priest’s words gave some comfort to Nennolina and her parents. And I suppose it was just as well. The five-year-old would have the rest of her life to recognize the falsehood behind Father Giuseppe’s words. “I want to go to the cemetery,” I told Carlo when he arrived. “It’s been a rough few days.” “Sure,” said my son. “If it’ll make you feel better to visit Mom.” We said goodbye to everyone, and I kissed my Nennolina. “Promise me you’ll be good,” I said to her. “I promise you,” she replied. “And don’t forget to say a little prayer for me, Uncle Giovanni. Maybe if everyone prays for me, I’ll grow my leg back. Or if it doesn’t, it won’t matter. It would be God’s will after all.” “Yes, I heard you say it the first time. I shall say a prayer for you.” But inside, I knew that I would not. * * * On the way to the cemetery Carlo and I were mostly silent for the first half hour. Then my son turned off the radio and looked at me. “When did you last come to see Mom?” “About three months ago. Before I started getting lost when I drive.” “You can’t visit now, can you?” “I’d rather not risk it,” I answered him. “Ever since I got lost driving to La Trattoria Veronese. I’ve been going there to eat for years, especially after your mother passed away. And suddenly I couldn’t find it. It took me three hours to get home.” “You miss her, don’t you?” “About as much as an amputated leg.” Carlo guided me to the place where her tomb was found. I no longer remembered how to get there, a place I had visited more than seventy times in the last two years. But so it was with my disease. I was forgetting everything. “That was a big blow, Carlo. You don’t know how much I loved her. We spent forty-two years together. When she passed away, it was as if a part of me had died. And that was when I decided finally and irrevocably that I would not worship your God. You don’t know this, but your mother was making inroads into my soul.” “Really?” Carlo asked. “Did you ever go to Mass?” “I had no idea how to help her through her clinical depression. I tried a hundred different things, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually I realized that the only thing that kept her from total and utter desolation was her strong faith in God. It was her faith that kept her from falling into the cesspit of despair. Perhaps it even protected her from suicide. She was so forlorn after her twin sister died that when she asked me to accompany her to church, I could not refuse. We must have gone to church together a dozen times.” “Why didn’t you keep going? Why did you revert to being an atheist? Didn’t you realize that God was offering you His grace?” “My lack of faith was entrenched when she was taken from me. I always expected I would be the first to die, never even thinking of the possibility that she would die before me.” “If you had faith, your grief would lose its sting,” Carlo replied. “I, too, grieved for my mother, but I knew that she was with the angels. Lucia and I go to church every Sunday. Why don’t you start going with us?” “Because I rage against your God. Your mother was as Catholic as could be, and yet she wasn’t spared. The last few years of her life were truly a torment. And then He took her from me, cruelty upon cruelty, leaving me desperately alone. And now look at what He’s doing to me! I am about to lose even my memories. I shall be the mere husk of a man. What do I have to thank Him for?” “Those forty-two years you spent with her, for starters. The intelligence with which you were blessed. That part of your family which still remains. The books you wrote that are still getting read. I know it all seems bleak now, but it would help if you began to see everything with eyes of faith. Don’t forget in the darkness what God has shown you in the light.” “I think faith in God is a crutch used by people in an effort to avoid facing the multiple horrors of life. I know it helped your mother. I know it’s helping Nennolina and her parents now. But I don’t want to be false to my inmost self and turn to God just because I’m afraid of what will come. ‘To thine own self be true’ and all that. I shall resign myself to my fate with courage and open eyes.” “In some strange way, Giovanni, you’ve been given a blessing. You have the chance to make your peace with God before you lose your faculties. For others, death comes like a thief in the night. You have the opportunity to repent.” “Repent? Of what? I never cheated on your mother, never struck her. I never stole a cent in my entire life.” “How about your pride for starters, Giovanni? The way you treated people with disdain, the way you tyrannized my mother. You don’t need to be a murderer to run afoul of God’s Commandments.” “I treated no one with disdain. I don’t suffer fools gladly, that is all. There are so many academics who are truly idiots. And how exactly did I tyrannize your mother? If you’re going to be making such an accusation, you should at least have some facts to back it up.” “You never let her forget she was not as intelligent as you. You made her feel so small, so insignificant. I hate to say this to you – I know it will cause you pain – but you were a contributor to her depression. The way you would rail against her if dinner was not ready at six o’clock on the dot because it would force you to delay your writing schedule. The way you lashed out at her if your white shirt was not ironed perfectly every morning. She was your little slave, and you never let her forget it. Don’t you realize how unhappy you made her?” “So now I’m responsible for her depression!” I cried out in anger. “When I did all I could to help her overcome it! I took her to I don’t know how many psychiatrists. I took her on long walks, tried to make her exercise. In the end, I even deigned to speak privately to Father Giuseppe, to see if he had any ideas as to how to improve her condition. So you are misremembering what happened.” “Just use your Alzheimer’s as an opportunity to make your peace with God. Make a true examination of conscience. Throw yourself at the feet of His mercy now that you have the chance to do so.” “I won’t abandon the certainties of a lifetime merely because of a moment of fear. I may end up a drooling invalid at the end, but I shall retain my pride.” * * * On the day of Nennolina’s First Holy Communion, I was among the first to arrive, accompanied by Carlo and Lucia. When the little girl first saw me, she approached me with joy painted on her face. “I am so glad you’ve come!” she cried out. “That you will share this special – no, super special! – day with me.” “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I told her. “I know you never come to Mass, Uncle Giovanni. I never see you with Uncle Carlo and Lucia when they come. So I prayed so hard that you would come to church today. I pray every night for your conversion.” “Where do you learn about conversion, Nennolina?” Given her age, the girl’s intelligence always surprised me. “From Jesus, silly! Sometimes He appears to me in dreams. Sometimes I hear His words when I pray. I know you need to accept Him to receive His grace, Uncle Giovanni. So I always say a special prayer for you. Without His grace, you can do nothing. With His grace, there is nothing you can’t do.” “That’s what the nuns taught you, right, Nennolina? You didn’t think of that on your own.” “It wasn’t the nuns, Uncle Giovanni. I’ve already told you the Good Lord speaks with me from time to time. That shouldn’t surprise you. He’s so happy that I offered Him my little leg. Offer him your own sufferings too, and you’ll see that He will speak to you as well, even in the silence of your heart. I pray every night for the conversion of all poor sinners, but especially for you. I’ve kept that a secret from everyone. Even my mother doesn’t know.” “And why do you think I’m a sinner, Nennolina?” “Because we all are. Also, because you never go to Confession or receive the Holy Eucharist. I know that for a fact. The Holy Eucharist is God’s greatest gift to man; it is actually the body and blood of Christ. That’s why I am so excited today, because I’ll receive Communion for the first time. Without receiving the body and blood of Jesus, you won’t be able to resist temptation.” That had always seemed to me to be one of the Catholic Church’s most baffling beliefs, that the bread and wine were literally – not symbolically – the very flesh and blood of Christ. I could understand a child’s belief in transubstantiation, but never in the mind of an adult. At some point my goddaughter got in the line behind the other girls to receive the sacrament. She walked no differently from the other communicants despite her prosthetic leg. She had the slightest of limps, but if you did not know of her amputation, you would barely notice it. And suddenly I felt a frisson of hope. Perhaps her life would not be ruined after all. Perhaps what I had seen as a catastrophe was merely a challenge to be conquered. My little Nennolina radiated happiness, peace, tranquility. It was a special day for her – “super special,” she had said – and she participated in the celebration with reverence and joy, with none of the despair I had vicariously felt for her. Yes, her face evidenced courage, but it was somehow more than courage. Yes, it manifested peace, but it was more than mere tranquility. Hers was a total surrender to her God, as if nothing mattered, a faith as solid as a rock, a belief that every suffering in life could have a higher purpose. It reminded me of a prayer my wife used to have next to her bed, which I read every night without giving it much thought: “Do not despair. Don’t send me a desperate prayer as if to demand that I meet your demands. Close the eyes of the soul and repeat in a calm voice, ‘Jesus, I trust in you.’” My Nennolina trusted in the Christ – trusted blindly, completely, without reserve – and that trust could turn adversity into joy. I wondered if I couldn’t do the same and simply trust that God would help me deal with the cross of Alzheimer’s. But I quickly turned away from such hopeful divagations. I was not about to lose a limb. I was about to lose my very mind, my identity itself, and I did not see any possible escape. * * * Zoraya started living with me, a buxom sixty-year-old woman that Carlo had hired to take care of me. Initially I had hoped that the woman would rid me of my solitude, but that was not to be. She had a job to do – to help an old man get through his day without disaster – and that is all that she did. She was professional, though. I can’t complain on that score. My meals were always ready on time, she would accompany me to the bathroom when I needed it, she helped me dress in the morning and helped me get into my pajamas at night. But when I tried to engage her in conversation, she was as reluctant as could be. I was astonished that a woman could spend the whole day playing solitaire without going mad. So I decided to try to finish a novel about a May-to-December romance which I had been writing when my Elena died. There was nothing else I could do. It was one of the ironies of my disease, that I couldn’t find my way around the house but could still write a decent novel. Then the day came when Zoraya showed exactly what she thought of me, that I was a mere child or, worse than that, an animal. I had gotten up very early in the morning with a horrible need to defecate. Usually I first went to the bathroom at the same time, around nine o’clock in the morning, when Zoraya would come to my room to rouse me and take me to the bathroom. But for some unknown reason, there was once a morning when I woke up beset by a case of explosive diarrhea. I tried to find the bathroom, but it was not to be. One of the perks of being professor emeritus at Sapienza University was that I could buy a large house, and although the house had three bathrooms, it was impossible for me to even find one. So I soiled my pants and eventually found Zoraya’s room, where I told her what had happened. The first thing she did was slap me in the face. And hard. “I wasn’t hired to clean your merda,” she cried. “If you need to take a shit, you can call me before your ass explodes. My room is right next to yours, so there’s no excuse, you dirty old son-of-a-bitch.” Then she undid my pants and cleaned my butt with a wet sponge, all the while cursing at me, completely disgusted. “If you ever do this again, I swear I’ll strike you like a child. There is no reason for me to have to go through this. Do you understand?” I said nothing. “Do you understand, son-of-a-bitch?” she repeated. “I do,” I said. From that day on, Zoraya started treating me with cruelty. She didn’t strike me again, but she acted as if it were a terrible chore to take care of me. She constantly cussed at me, told me what a burden I was. One day she pushed me into a wall because I was late to dinner and she had to reheat my cold soup. On others she forced me to stay in my room as a punishment, sometimes even taking my typewriter away so I couldn’t write. I wondered whether madness would take me even before I succumbed to Alzheimer’s, for such was the horror of being locked up in my room all day without even having the palliative which was my writing. I thought of reporting her conduct to Carlo, but decided against it. At least with Zoraya I had the benefit of staying in my own home, where I still retained such pleasant memories. Yes, indeed, they hadn’t been ripped away from me yet! I dreaded the thought of being left to die in a hospital for the aged and the infirm, forgotten by everyone, surrounded by nobody but dying people. I could accept a certain level of abuse from Zoraya, suspecting I would not be treated better in a hospice and knowing there was no better place to slowly die than in my own home, where everything still reminded me of days of wonder. And the more I remained silent, the more emboldened became the cruel Zoraya. I had heard of elder abuse in the past, but had never realized it could be so demeaning. * * * Then came a monstrous day, absolutely monstrous. Carlo came by the house and told me Nennolina’s cancer had metastasized, that the doctors were still administering some tests but that they seemed to be fairly certain of their diagnosis. The news couldn’t have been more dire. Nennolina’s cancer had spread to her hands, her feet, her throat, her mouth and head, all in the space of a few months. And they couldn’t amputate her mouth, her throat or her head! No, they couldn’t! There was no cure for her condition, and all everyone could do was wait, hoping at least that she would not greatly suffer as she “carried her cross,” as my son Carlo put it. Oh, how I hated that expression! I felt God was playing His last cruel joke on me, letting me be predeceased by my five-year-old goddaughter. And in a perverse way, I even desired that my mental condition would be worse, much worse, that I would be so mentally infirm that I wouldn’t understand the great and undeserved tragedy of my little Nennolina. I had learned a new word, perhaps more frightening than Alzheimer’s. It was osteosarcoma, and it was decimating my five-year-old niece’s body. High-grade osteosarcoma to be more exact, a disease which attacks children much more than adults. Oh, the injustice of the universe! Despite the amputation of her leg, Nennolina’s tumor had somehow spread to the rest of her tiny body, probably through her bloodstream. Her immune system had simply been unable to fight the malignant cancer. I felt like screaming, ranting, railing, but it was useless. I felt nobody could hear me and knew there was no magic pill to restore her martyred body. The doctor had admitted with a stern face to Nennolina’s parents – no red balloon this time! – that osteosarcoma has one of the lowest survival rates for pediatric cancer. When Michele and Maria told their daughter she should expect to suffer through greater physical pain in the near future, she had responded in a calm voice, “May each step that I take be a little word of love. I will offer all my suffering to the crucified Jesus.” Carlo took me to Nennolina’s house as soon as she was discharged from the hospital. It was clear that she was already suffering a lot of pain, and Maria told me they would be praying a novena to Saint Therese de Lisieux, asking that her disease be as painless as possible. I responded, “You know I don’t believe, but I shall join you as an act of solidarity. I wish I could believe, truly I do, but I simply can’t.” Maria responded, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I realize that you feel you’re compromising your beliefs, but are doing it because you cherish Nennolina.” “That’s quite all right,” I responded. “If it will make you and Michele feel a little better…If it will somehow soften the girl’s pain… I swear to you that I would gladly trade places with your daughter.” “There’s something I want to show you, Giovanni. Every night my Nennolina writes a love letter to God. After writing it, she places it at the feet of a small statue of the Infant Jesus in the expectation that He will read them during the night. She never refers to you by name, but I’m almost certain she prays for you often. I’m going to get those letters for you. She must have written about a hundred of them, directed to Jesus and His Mother. Perhaps by reading those child’s letters you will receive a response to your existential anguish.” “Sure, I’d love to read them,” I responded, knowing it was no time to argue. “Nennolina’s faith and courage are exemplary.” “Good,” said Maria. “Maybe that will reduce your fear as well. I know you’re also suffering from your own private pain. Through a special grace given to her by God, Nennolina understands more than most adults the true value of suffering. She has a deep wisdom beyond her years. She swears the Infant Jesus has given her this knowledge directly. You might find solace in her writing.” Then I added, in a somber voice, “I doubt I’ll be moved from my atavistic atheism by reading the letters of a child. And the fact that soon I won’t even remember her name adds nothing to my faith.” Then I went into Nennolina’s bedroom. As a result of her condition, she could not leave her bed, and she was in constant pain. “How’s my favorite niece?” I asked, trying to seem as cheerful as possible. “Not that great,” she said in a small voice. “It hurts a little. But if it’s the will of God, I won’t complain. I only pray that souls will find Jesus, a lot of them. I ask Him every night that He makes them good so they can join Him in Paradise.” And then she started coughing uncontrollably. I was alarmed and called her mother Maria. “Just let her be,” she said. “It won’t last long.” “I brought you a book,” I said, as soon as she stopped coughing. “You know how to read now, don’t you, Nennolina?” “Most certainly,” she replied. “It’s the Italian translation of a Spanish book called Marcelino Bread and Wine. I thought that you would like it. It’s about an orphaned boy who lives with a group of monks. They forbid him from entering a certain room, but he goes there anyway and finds a large crucifix. At some point, Jesus comes to life and speaks to the little boy. Every night, the boy brings Him food. At the end of the story, the boy asks to join his mother in Heaven, and God grants his wish.” “That is just lovely,” Maria said. “Especially coming from you, Giovanni. We’ll read it together tonight. What do you say, Nennolina?” “Thank you, Uncle Giovanni. It sounds like a great story. I too have been told by the little Jesus that I shall soon join His mommy in Heaven.” I was perplexed. “So the Infant Jesus has spoken to you?” “A lot,” Nennolina responded. “He speaks to me often, especially at night when the pain gets worse. He tells me, ‘You will suffer a little, my little bride, but soon you will be with me in Paradise.’ It’s God’s grace filling my spirit, Uncle Giovanni. Let’s say that my soul is an apple. In the apple there are those little black things that are the seeds. Then inside the skin there’s this white thing. Well, think of that as God’s grace. Jesus is making sure that His grace will always be with me. The Lord’s grace is like the kiss of a rose. And don’t forget we are also protected by the Madonnina!” * * * I took the letters Nennolina had written to Jesus and His Mother. They filled a big pouch. Many of them were repetitive expressions of love for Mary and the Christ. But there were some that may have been referring to me, although my name did not appear in any of the hundred letters. In one of the missives, dated October 15, 1936, Nennolina prayed, “I want to be good and pray that that man who does not wish Jesus well might convert.” Of course she might have been thinking about anyone, but I was intrigued and continued reading. Other than myself, I couldn’t think of any other person to whom she might have been referring. At the same time, I couldn’t understand why she would think that I didn’t wish Jesus well. I wished Him neither good nor ill. I simply questioned His divinity. Nennolina was insistent. I found more than fifty letters asking Jesus for the conversion of “that person whom you know.” In a single month, there were more than seven letters asking for the repentance of some unnamed sinner. On October 29, 1936, she prayed, “Dear Jesus, help my parents and all the world, and I entrust to you also that sinner whom you know.” On October 30, 1936, she prayed, “Dear Jesus, protect and bless all the world, my parents and that person that you know. I will pray a lot for that person.” On November 2, 1936, she prayed, “Dear Jesus, make it so that all sinners convert, and I entrust to you also that person that you know.” On November 3, 1936, she prayed, “Dear Jesus, make it so that all sinners convert, and I entrust to you also that person that you know.” On November 6, 1936, she petitioned on behalf of “the man that has been entrusted to you.” On November 11, 1936, she made a lengthier plea: “Dear Jesus! You must do me three graces, the first that I be always good to make my soul always more beautiful, the second that my heart be all full of light and of love to receive you in Holy Communion, the third to help that person whom you know.” On November 16, she prayed for “that person that I entrust to you very much.” On November 18, 1936, she pleaded, “I wish that they all come into Paradise with you, and especially help that man that I entrust to you.” In the ensuing months, she was no less relentless, praying constantly for my conversion. I came to the conclusion that she must have been thinking about me when she wrote about the wayward sinner, for she didn’t refer to me by name in any of her letters. It would have been strange for her not to remember her uncle and godfather while remembering others who were not as close to her as I was. At all events, I read all her letters in a single sitting, and at the conclusion I collapsed on my bed and cried. I was awestruck and deeply moved by the generosity of the little girl. Instead of praying for a remission of her cancer or for a cessation of her pain, she prayed incessantly for her uncle’s metanoia. And after all my weeping, I was left with a single question. Who was I to confound her expectations? So I left the house while Zoraya was in the bathroom and started walking. I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to restrain me, for I was a man with a purpose. I hadn’t been to Father Giuseppe’s church in years, those few times when I went with my dear Elena as she grappled with her clinical depression. To my amazement, my condition didn’t preclude me from finding the church. Soon I found myself kneeling on a pew close to the altar beneath the crucified Christ. I didn’t pray. I just kneeled there silently. I owed my Nennolina no less. If she desperately wanted my conversion, then I would give her God a chance to convert me. Suddenly someone patted me on the shoulder. It was Father Giuseppe. “Good afternoon,” I said. “You must be surprised to see me here.” “Not surprised at all,” replied the priest in a jovial manner. “I’ve been expecting you for a lifetime.” “I must tell you I haven’t converted. I’m hoping for some sort of miracle. After all, Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint Thomas – all of them doubted and were saved through outlandish miracles. I learned that with the Jesuits in my distant adolescence, when I first started breaking away from the faith. Saint Peter walked on water, Saint Paul recovered his sight after being blinded, Saint Thomas only believed when he could touch the wounds of the crucified Christ. And I came here to see if could also be a beneficiary of a marvelous miracle. I owe my Nennolina no less. I know she expects a miracle, that she has fervently prayed for it, that her old uncle’s conversion would be the miracle which she has sought relentlessly.” “Miracles are commonplace,” said the priest. “We just need to have the eyes to see them. Often we’re hoping for something grand, something impossible, when all we need to do is trust in Jesus and relinquish all our troubles to Him. Jesus will come to your aid in His own way and in His own time, even if you don’t immediately realize it.” “I want a miracle so badly,” I said as I began to softly weep. “Pray and you shall receive one. I can assure you of that. God can do the impossible, so start praying for Nennolina. She may die despite your prayers, but you can ask the Lord that she suffer less on her journey to Heaven. And what greater miracle can there be than her ascent to Paradise? You can also start praying for yourself, Giovanni, that you be delivered from the ravages of old age. Your son has told me all about your condition. Don’t be surprised if God grants you lucidity for a longer time than you might think. And if He doesn’t, it will be because He wants you to be more open to God’s grace. Perhaps in your suffering you will find Him closer than ever. Pray only that the will of God be satisfied, and know that His deepest will is your eternal salvation.” “I didn’t get lost on the way to church,” I confided. “It’s a small miracle. I find it hard to find the bathroom in my own house.” “Well, there you have it,” said the priest. “Un miracolo piccolino. Every difficulty and suffering in life must be embraced as an opportunity for you to increase your trust in God. Put your future in God’s hands. There is no better place to put it.” And then I collapsed into the arms of the old priest. “I believe,” I cried out amid my tears. “I believe in Christ. It is my Nennolina who has taught me to believe.” * * * My Nennolina died on a Friday, four years ago, with myself, her parents, and Lucia and Carlo at her side. She had told her mother ahead of time that she would die that Friday. Somehow the Lord gave her that knowledge. She attributed it to Saint Therese de Lisieux, whom Nennolina had asked for more time on earth, but who had told her she would not live past that Friday. For most of my life I would have doubted such an apparition, but I have learned that miracles are ubiquitous and happen every day. As some wise man once said, the person who does not believe in miracles is not a realist. I know every day is a miracle for me. I have lived with mild dementia for years, but somehow have managed – through my prayers – to avoid lapsing into severe dementia. That means that I can reason and hold ordinary conversations with people, that I’m not a constant burden to others, that I can even write. The nuns at the home for the aged treat me with great care, unlike Zoraya, who had been let go after my son Carlo learned of her abuse. And the greatest gift of all? Although I may forget what I’ve had this morning for breakfast, I haven’t lost the memory of my dear Elena. I remember our glorious wedding day, the marvelous day our son was born, our voyages to distant places like Morocco and New York City. In a word, my dearest recollections are largely intact. I don’t know when I’ll turn into a doddering fool, but this I know for sure: when all is done, the love of my life will be waiting for me. 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) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) 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 Sandro F. Piedrahita Ad maiorem Dei gloriam “Whoever has God lacks nothing; God alone suffices.” - Saint Teresa of Avila I have been praying without ceasing at the shrine to Fra Giacomo in the church of San Francesco in Citta di Castello since this morning. My parents heard that many people were visiting the shrine to ask for miracles and that many pilgrims had in fact been cured. According to my mother, people had been traveling to the church of San Francesco from all over Italy, even from as far as Germany, seeking Fra Giacomo’s intercession to rid themselves of all sorts of maladies. There were reports of the blind men seeing, the lame men walking, and the paralytics being healed. A deaf–mute girl was able to speak and hear. A woman with a hideous skin condition suddenly was cured. A man with a deadly tumor was no longer ill. My parents Parisio and Emilia della Metola were never particularly Catholic and seldom attended Mass, but somehow they decided that it was worth a try to visit Fra Giacomo’s shrine to demand a miracle. God knows how joyous they would be if instead of a disfigured hunchbacked dwarf they had a lovely princess for a daughter! But I know the Lord formed my inward parts and knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I am fearfully and wonderfully made, just as the psalm reminds us. The truth is, my parents know how devoted I am to Christ and think I am somehow entitled to a miracle. If not you, they said when they announced our trip to Castello, who else deserves a cure? Don’t you spend your whole day praying? My father and mother – he so handsome, she so lovely, both patricians of noble lineage – were shocked on the day of my birth in 1287. I am blind, lame, a dwarf and hunchbacked. One of my legs is longer than the other, and I have a deformed arm and a misshapen face. Instead of the blessing they had expected on the day of my birth, when my parents saw me they felt cursed by what they considered a monster. And so early this morning they brought me to this shrine, to see if their unwelcome freak could somehow be restored through a fabulous miracle. For years they have tried to hide me, to pretend I do not exist. They told everyone I was dead. Since I was a six-year-old they have kept me hidden in a small stone cell without a door, attached to the chapel of Saint Mary in Metola, a place where nobody could see me, other than Fra Cappellano, who taught me about the Lord and gave me Holy Communion through a small square window. Later, in my sixteenth year, they transferred me to a secret underground vault in the palace at Mercatello, which was even worse, for I was not close to the house of God and could not listen to Mass or receive the Sacraments. But yesterday they decided for the first time in thirteen years to take me out of my prison cell. My parents desperately wanted to see if God would do something to rid them of a cross they felt they had unjustly borne for far too long. Of course they made sure I was heavily veiled, so that no one could see my face, and we left under cover of darkness. When we arrived at the shrine, I asked for a miracle mostly because it would please my parents. As for me, I long ago made peace with my deformity. To quote Saint Paul, I will boast gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest on me. I think that when we initially arrived, my father and mother had some hope of a miracle, but as the hours passed and nothing happened, they became gradually less enthused. Soon my father went back to the inn – not being a man of faith himself, he had thought the idea of asking for a cure for so many disabilities was doomed to fail from the beginning – and as the hours passed and there was no miracle my mother too became increasingly desperate. “Pray hard and loud,” my mother ordered me, “so that God can hear your voice above that of all the rabble.” “God can hear me,” I told her. “There is no need to shout.” “Well, pray, pray!” she beseeched me. “Tell the God you pray to that it is unjust for Him to have given you such a punishment.” “I have not been punished by God,” I gently rebuked my mother. “Each person has a different cross to bear. God knows why I have been born this way. One should never question the designs of our Almighty God.” “Just pray,” my mother insisted. “Never mind whether or not you have been punished. I know that your father and I have certainly been punished. What great sin have we committed, that we should have deserved such a terrible blight?” “Please, Lord,” I said to satisfy my mother. “Heal me of my deformity. Restore my vision. Rid me of this disfiguring hunchback. Fix my legs and make my face beautiful like that of my mother. Make me the daughter my parents have always wanted.” And then I added, as I had been taught by Fra Cappellano, “But not according to my will, but yours be done, my Lord.” “Don’t say that!” my mother cried excitedly. “Don’t give Him the option of denying your request. You make it sound as if you didn’t care much either way. Demand a miracle, demand it urgently, Margherita. You always pray so much, He has to listen to you.” “We can’t demand anything from God,” I responded in an even voice. “God will do whatever is best for my soul and for His greater glory.” “Oh, you’re hopeless,” my mother cried. “Maybe your father is right. Maybe even God can’t help you.” “For God nothing is impossible,” I replied. “Well, then pray,” my mother repeated. “If He is so powerful, let Him show His power.” Although I could not see anything, I could get a sense of who else was at the church based on my mother’s apparent disgust at the sight of the other pilgrims, which she made no effort to conceal. She complained about the “foul, pestilent odor of the crowds” and told me that but for her desire to see me healed, she would never have endured it. And it was true that the stench of sweat and dirt was everywhere, the smell of working men and women, many of them suffering from one illness or another, but I did not think of the malodor of the pilgrims but of their great faith and devotion, which I could hear all about me. “You should be thankful that I’m at your side, Margherita,” said my mother. “Realize that I’m doing this only for you. This place is full of hideous creatures, a parade of horribles, a lot of them filthy and disheveled. Many of them are visibly diseased, and I dread the possibility of contagion. There’s a woman whose face and arms are covered by red bleeding pustules, a man defaced by enormous black warts as big as eggs, another with repellent boils, and all you do is say, ‘Lord, do whatever you will.’ If you’re not going to put your heart into your requests, just let me know, Margherita, and we can put an end to all this praying.” “All right, I shall begin to pray the Rosary,” I said. “I shall pray to Mary as hard as I can. Mary is the most powerful of intercessors.” “Fine,” my mother said. “You’ve spent thirteen years doing nothing but praying. And today of all days you seem so hesitant.” “I have never really prayed for a cure,” I explained to my mother. “I don’t know if a cure is necessary. I have prayed for the power to accept my limitations, as a way of sharing Christ’s cross.” At various times, we heard people exclaiming thanks to the Lord for prayers that had been answered. There was one woman who was practically wailing, praising God because her son, who had been beset by maniacal hallucinations and delusions and whom she called a demoniac, had been completely cured. I know that she approached my mother and think she even hugged her, because my mother immediately exclaimed, “Don’t touch me, you dirty peasant woman! Don’t you know who you are dealing with?” Still, my mother turned to me and said I should redouble my prayers. “If such a lowly, common woman has been granted such a miracle, surely God can do no less for you. Ask God for what you deserve, you, the daughter of Parisio and Emilia della Metola.” But after a few hours of listening to me pray the Rosary, with no change in my condition, my mother simply disappeared. I assumed she had gone to the back of the church, to get away from the sickest supplicants, and I continued praying. Soon I found myself moving to and fro among the persons begging for miracles. There was barely any breathing room. Some people were rough, pushing me forward forcefully as they tried to approach the tomb of Fra Giacomo. At one moment I was knocked down onto the floor and the crowds simply walked over me until, with the assistance of my cane and a kindly man, I was able to get back on my feet. There were so many people at the church that it became unbearably hot, and my forehead started to sweat profusely under the mantilla veil my parents had told me to wear in order to hide my face. “Please heal my son’s clubfoot,” one woman cried. Another exclaimed, “Please let my daughter hear again.” And yet another prayed, “I need a cure for this terrible affliction of the lungs.” “Where’s the crucifix?” I asked in my blindness, and a man took me by the hand and led me through the crowds to a place where I could kneel. When I had been locked up for eleven years in the cell next to the chapel in Metola, I had at least that solace: the window of my room directly faced the chancel of the church, and I could hear the benediction and knew the image of Christ on His cross was only a few meters away from me. And despite my blindness, I imagined, somehow, I could see Jesus in His agony on that crucifix perched high above the altar as Fra Cappellano elevated the Host during the Eucharist. At any event, today, in the Church of San Francesco, I found myself kneeling at the foot of the crucified Jesus. I said, again, “If it is your will, my Lord, please cure me of my disfigurements and let me see. It is hard to be dwarfed, humpbacked, lame and blind. I am fatigued by my condition, but it is especially fatiguing to my parents.” And then I added, as always, “Not according to my will, but yours be done, my Lord.” I prayed fervently – no one could doubt that – I sincerely wanted a cure. But I trusted that, no matter what happened, God’s decision would be the best one for both myself and my parents. The hours passed, and I continued praying. I prayed the Rosary ceaselessly, but there was no change in my condition. Then I finished praying, and amid the crowds, I searched for my mother. I called out her name and heard nothing in response. I had been locked up for years with scarcely any human contact – at first just Fra Cappellano teaching me about the faith when I lived in a cell next to the chapel at Metola and later, when I was moved to Mercatello, only the servants bringing me food. So I was wholly unaccustomed to being in such a large and boisterous crowd, with everybody moving in different directions, not knowing exactly where I was, whether I was close to the altar or to the exit. Somehow I managed to make it to the back of the church, where I thought my mother would be waiting, but still I couldn’t find her. I took hold of a woman by the arm and asked her if she could help me, told her that my mother was named Emilia. The woman, realizing that I was blind, agreed to help me, and asked among the crowds for my mother. But my mother was not there, and eventually the woman stopped looking for her. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said in a kind voice. “But your mother is nowhere to be found.” I kept searching for hours, making my way with difficulty among the throngs. Finally the sexton tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time to leave, that I could return the next morning. I left the church and walked out into the rain, not knowing what had happened to my mother. On the wagon as we traveled to Castello, my father Parisio had warned that there were outlaws who preyed upon the pilgrims, and my father had even enlisted an escort of twelve guards to protect our carriage. For the first time in my life, I felt absolute terror. Perhaps my parents had suffered an accident in the city. Perhaps they had been killed by bandits. I made the sign of the cross and said a prayer for their safety. Surely the Lord would not let anything happen to them, since they were all I had in this world. So I sat down on the steps of the church and waited for hours, never stopping my prayers – not for a cure to my deformity, but for the healthy return of those I loved so much. At some point the sexton appeared again and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was waiting for my parents and asked him if he could direct me to the Avellino Inn, where my parents and I had been staying. I remembered that my father Parisio had said it was the best inn in all of Castello – fitting a man of his stature, a hero against Metola’s enemies. The sexton told me the inn was not too far away, perhaps two kilometers, and that all I needed to do was follow the street of San Provolo directly until I heard the noise coming from the inn. The sexton added that many people gathered to drink at night on Saturdays at the Avellino Inn, and that I couldn’t miss it even if I tried. I don’t know if he realized that I was blind. But then he warned me, “It is dangerous for a woman such as you to travel the streets of Citta di Castello by herself so late at night. A bandit may appear, and you might be ravished.” I uncovered my face and told him there was no such danger. “Have you seen my face, how hideous it is to mortal eyes?” I asked him. “Have you seen the curvature of my spine? The unevenness of my legs? I am in no danger of losing my chastity.” So I started on my journey, for the first time making my way through the roads of a city, blind, lame and completely alone. Although I wrapped a shawl about my head, it did nothing to protect me from the rain. The streets were barren, probably because of the weather, and I couldn’t find anyone to give me further directions. I noticed there were structures on either side of the road, what I imagined to be houses, and I walked with one hand on the walls and another on my cane. Surely this way I wouldn’t get lost, if I simply followed the houses on what I imagined was the street of San Provolo. But it was hard to walk on the uneven, muddy road, and I stumbled and fell several times, just like the Christ had fallen as He carried His Cross on the way to Calvary. Every time I fell, my garments got covered in more and more mud. In all my years on this earth, I had never realized how challenging it was to be lame and blind at the same time. But the hours passed, and at some point, I concluded that I had taken the wrong course. There were no longer any houses, only what seemed to be empty fields. I kept walking anyway, but in the opposite direction, trying to return to the place where I had come from, until I ran into a pack of dogs. I had never heard a dog bark before, let alone seen one, but Fra Cappellano had instructed me about the animals in God’s creation and had told me about dogs, cats, cows, and so many other creatures. I did not know what to do when faced with all those dogs – there must have been about a dozen of them – and I was afraid that if I moved, they would pounce upon me. And indeed when I made the slightest movement, I heard more than one of the dogs starting to growl quite fiercely. I imagined them shredding me to pieces, biting my legs, my face, my head, and there was nothing I could do to protect myself, no human to rescue me. I was completely alone. And then I said a small prayer to the Lord, and the animals ceased their barking and growling, starting to sniff me with curiosity instead. Suddenly I knew I was safe. I even dared to caress one of the dogs, with woolly hair and floppy ears, and he was gentle as could be, wet and shivering just like I was. I sat on a rock in the rain and decided to wait for dawn, when the people would fill the streets again and I could be told how to make my way to the Avellino Inn to find my parents. I tried to wipe off the mud from my skirt and blouse, but it was useless. Finally day broke and shortly thereafter I heard a group of women walking together. I told them, “I am blind. Please help me. I need to find the Avellino Inn. Somehow I got lost last night.” “Well, you’re nowhere near it, but it just so happens we’re going in that direction. You can walk with us. You just have to follow the river for a couple of kilometers and then walk south for another kilometer.” “Are we close to a river?” I inquired. “Yes,” one of the women told me. “It is the Tiber River. You can’t hear it because it’s raining. But if you prick your ears, you will sense its movement.” Finally, soaking wet and muddied, I arrived at the Avellino Inn. I said to the concierge, “I am looking for my parents, Parisio and Emilia della Metola. Can you please tell them I am here?” “Well, I’m sorry,” the woman answered in a curt tone, and then she hurled out a few words that hurt like knives. “They left yesterday afternoon. Apparently they left without you. Although they did leave a message for you.” She handed me a piece of paper. “I can’t see,” I said. “Can you tell me what it says?” The woman began reading. “Since you have not made the slightest effort to demand a miracle and you are so happy in your condition, we have decided that it is best for you to face your perils with God alone. We are done with worrying about you and will leave everything in His hands. Find a church or convent where they will take you in and feed you. Or learn to beg if you must. Please do not look for us again. Parisio and Emilia.” I started weeping. I began reeling. “What am I supposed to do?” I asked the innkeeper. “I can’t see. I can barely walk. I’ve been locked up in a room for years, never having to make my way around a city. How am I supposed to keep on living?” “I’m sorry,” the innkeeper responded. “You can’t stay here. I am not running a charity. In any case, there is no room at the inn at the moment. Perhaps you should just walk to the cathedral in the center of town. That is where all the beggars go to ask for alms. I am sure that seeing your condition, many people will give you something. Enough to eat at least. Few people are as cursed as you appear to be, my dear.” I responded, amid my tears, “I am a temple of the Holy Ghost, made in His image and likeness. My condition is not a curse but a gift from God.” And with that, alone and blind, I began to brave the streets of Citta di Castello, unable to cease weeping. With the passing of the years, I would learn to navigate those streets, from east to west, from north to south, as if I could see them with the eyes of God Himself. I mouthed another prayer to Jesus – not a desperate prayer, for I confided in Him – and then I started to walk. Eventually I asked a man I found on the street for directions to the Cathedral. “As you can see, I am blind and crippled,” I told him. “My name is Margherita. I need to find the Cathedral to see if someone will take pity on me and at least give me enough so that I may eat. I ate nothing yesterday, since I prayed all day and night. God knows that I am hungry. Even a loaf of bread and cheese would do.” “I, too, am a beggar,” the man volunteered in a tone that can only be described as cheerful. “My name is Giuseppe, and I am on my way to the cathedral. You can walk with me. You are new in town. What brings you here?” “My parents live in a castle on top of a mountain in Metola. They are very wealthy, noble people. They came to Citta di Castello on a horse and wagon to ask for a miracle from Fra Giacomo, and when I wasn’t healed, they simply left me, as if I were an animal to be cast away and forgotten. Frankly I am worried about their state in the eyes of God. To leave me alone under such conditions is surely the gravest of sins. I shall spend whatever is left of my life praying for their souls.” “That is the least of your worries,” Giuseppe told me. “You are in peril in this city, some bandit might try to assault you to see if you have anything worth stealing. Better not to walk alone in this town.” I told Giuseppe I was sure God would protect me and quoted from the twenty-third psalm. “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For God is near me, His rod and staff, they comfort me.” Then I remembered another psalm that Fra Cappellano had repeated to me constantly over the years, probably because he was furious about what my proud parents had done to me when I was a child. “My father and my mother have forsaken me,” I quoted Fra Cappellano, “but the Lord has taken me up.” “So you are a pious woman,” Giuseppe said. “And you know your Scriptures.” “The Lord has always protected me, and I trust He will continue to do so. He is my refuge and my strength, even when the people I most love have failed me.” “Well, you certainly need strength. Being crippled like you isn’t easy, especially since you’re also blind. And I assume your parents didn’t leave you any money. But you’re lucky it’s Sunday. I will take you to the Cathedral, on the Piazza Gabriotti, where you can meet the other beggars and join us in begging for alms after each of the Masses.” “Are there a lot of beggars?” I asked. “Quite a few, especially now that so many crippled people have come to town to ask for a miracle from Fra Giacomo. The great majority have not been cured. We have a group of regulars who hang together and help each other out. Pool together our resources. Maybe you can join our group.” “That would be nice,” I said. “I feel so alone in this big city.” “During the rainy season, we sleep under bridges or sometimes go to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, but it is pretty distant, and some of the beggars are too lame to go that far. Giovanni has no arms and legs, so he has to be carried. Elena is hopelessly crippled, even worse than you are. And Gianna is too old to walk very far. I myself am pretty disfigured, although of course you can’t tell. I am missing a leg and can barely walk with my crutches, Margherita. And my arms are so withered that it is impossible for me to work. I can barely feed myself with both hands.” “I can see your heart, which is what’s important,” I said. “I can sense a kind and loving soul, lovely in the sight of God.” “And when it is not raining,” Giuseppe continued, “we sleep wherever God finds us.” “Can we please slow down?” I said. “I am not used to walking, and last night I walked for hours. Both my legs are aching horribly, as my unused muscles must have been terribly strained. So we shall have to take it a little slow. I hope you don’t mind, Giuseppe.” “Not in the least,” Giuseppe answered. “I don’t walk that quickly either, Margherita,” he added with a laugh. After a long, slow walk, Giuseppe took me to the steps of the cathedral. “I would like to go inside,” I said. “I heard so much about the marvelous Cathedral of Citta di Castello from Fra Cappellano. He described the vaulted arches, how high the ceiling is, the marvelous stained glass panels showing the Stations of the Cross. I want to enter and feel the sense of wonder, even though I cannot see anything. I would like to attend Mass, Giuseppe, to receive the Holy Eucharist. After what I went through last night, I have so much to be thankful for today.” “Thankful?” Giuseppe echoed. “You’ve just been abandoned by your parents, crippled, penniless and blind in a strange town. What do you have to be thankful for?” “I found you, didn’t I?” I replied. “And at least I know my parents are safe. For the first time in my life, I feel the warmth of the sun upon my cheeks. I’m so used to being cloistered in a small cell that even something as simple as that fills my heart with joy. To breathe the open air, to hear the clop-clop of horses on the open roads, to smell the flowers that I could only imagine when I was being hidden away, to listen to the cries of children being tugged at by their mothers, the slow murmur of the river, the grinding sound of the wagons transporting beautiful ladies and men of import on their way about town. What reason is there not to be thankful to the Lord, Giuseppe?” “You’re an odd bird, aren’t you, Margherita? Nothing seems to affect you.” “God alone suffices,” I answered. “Why shouldn’t we all be thankful?” As the two of us walked up the steps leading to the cathedral, which was quite a challenge for me, even with my cane, Giuseppe asked me to move a little bit to the right, as we were approaching Lucia with her paralytic son. “She always appears before the others and begs from the steps leading to the cathedral, unlike the rest of the beggars, who congregate at the piazza at the bottom of the stairs. That is because few people give her alms, as they blame her for her son’s condition. The rumor that has spread about town is that Lucia’s son was born healthy, but his own mother severed his spine in order to cripple him, to receive more money when she was begging. But if she is guilty of such a monstrous action, it has had the contrary effect. Not many people feel like rewarding her for such a crime, and so she receives less than any of the other beggars. Sometimes I think she leaves with nothing.” “I understand,” I said, as I continued clambering up the steps in silence. When we finally entered the cathedral, I asked Giuseppe to guide me to the statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I extended my hand and felt the bearded face of the Christ, thinking it was exquisite. So similar to the face on the statuette of Jesus that I had always kept with me at Metola and Mercatello. Then I touched the Lord’s left hand, rubbing the scar where He had been crucified, then the right hand, wounded too and pointing to His heart, which I pressed gently with my fingers, imagining that I could see it, the red heart surrounded by a crown of thorns and from which a flame emerged. I had heard Fra Cappellano describe it in detail so many times, and touching it ignited my heart with the sweetest of recollections. “Oh, Giuseppe,” I cried out. “What a joy it is to be so close to Jesus! To be in this wondrous, holy place dedicated to His praise and exaltation!” After attending Mass and receiving the Eucharist, Giuseppe instructed me in how to beg. I should stand upright, he told me, so that those exiting the church would realize the enormity of my disability. And when people approached me, I should tell them, in my most insistent voice, “Please give whatever you can afford. I am blind, dwarfed, hunchbacked and crippled. The Lord will repay you in spades in Heaven. Remember that the Good Lord said, ‘Whatever you did to the least of these, you did for Me.’” And the people gave. They gave and gave. I collected many coins in a jar that another beggar, a friend of Giuseppe, had given me to keep the money I received. But as soon as the crowds dissipated, I asked Giuseppe to take me to where Lucia and her paralytic boy were begging. “Have you collected much?” I asked Lucia. “No, not much,” the woman responded. “Maybe two or three coins, you must have heard that the people all say that I am an unnatural mother. But I have confessed all my crimes, have thrown my sins at the feet of God’s mercy.” “Well, if the Lord has forgiven you, who am I to judge you?” And with those words I proceeded to give Lucia everything I had collected after the Mass. “Thank you,” Lucia whispered. “Surely one day you will be with God in Heaven.” “Go to the shrine of Fra Giacomo with your crippled boy this afternoon,” I advised her. “And he will be healed. I can assure you of that.” Giuseppe berated me. “What are you doing? Have you lost your senses? How are you going to eat today?” “That woman needs the money more than I do,” I explained. “I do not have a paralytic son to take care of. And the Lord will provide. There will be more Masses today. I promise you we will have our fill tonight, that we will feast like rich men.” “And why did you tell that poor woman that her paralytic son will be healed? Why make her hope for something that won’t happen?” “I know he will be cured, Giuseppe. Deep down, the Lord has given me that knowledge. If you only knew what I have in my heart...” “How can you believe that, given that you yourself were not blessed with a miracle?” “Ah, but I was!” I responded. “I have been incarcerated my whole life, and now I have the liberty of the streets. I am free, Giuseppe! I am completely free! How can you say that is not a miracle? When I was living in a dungeon, with only a pallet and an old bench to sit in, unable to attend Mass, unable to receive the Eucharist…If my parents had not abandoned me, I would have had to return to my prison. Now I am liberated so that I can fulfill whatever plans the Lord still has for me, and I believe He has wonderful plans. So don’t pity me, Giuseppe. As one of the glorious psalms says, ‘Out of my distress I called on the Lord, the Lord answered and set me free.’” And with that, I returned to the plaza at the foot of the cathedral, and I continued to beg before the second Mass. 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) By Bryant Burroughs The man squatted three rows deep in the olive trees on the slopes above the village. He scanned a small circle of women gathered at the well. Where is she? he fretted, squinting in the early morning sun. The dawn mist offered hope to the land and trees and villagers, but none to the crouching man. Pain and loneliness had invaded his days, and hope had fled far away. We were supposed to be Aaron and Anna, Anna and Aaron for a lifetime. How can I live cut in half? The red sores and splotches had attacked the day after Anna had held his face in both hands and whispered, “I’m pregnant.” It was the last time she had touched him. The splotches of unclean terror spread rapidly. A taut swath of red scored across his forehead and forked to scar his left cheek and behind his ear. His hands – the hands that had caressed Anna – the hands that would have comforted his baby – would never touch Anna or the child. He was banned, forced from home as polluted. Anna had wept bitterly when the village leaders drove him away, shoving him with shepherds’ staffs all the way to the olive grove in which he now crouched. They hurled stones and threats until he retreated at a run, away from the woman he loved. Now he was alone, empty, cut off from love. The scars of leprosy marred more than skin. They marred the heart. Suddenly the branches above shook from side to side, pelting him with a rain of olives. Pitching forward with his face and arms flung to the ground, he shouted, “The day will come when God will shake the nations,” calling up words placed in his heart by the long-ago prophet Haggai. And heal me, he added. Please heal me so that I can go home to Anna. “Quiet, Aaron, you fool!” a voice behind him urged. “You know you’re forbidden to be here.” That’s not the voice of God, Aaron thought as he turned over. It’s Simon. Another tree two rows away shook. “Get back here!” the urgent voice ordered. “If anyone sees you, you’ll have more to worry about than those scars of yours!” Aaron hopped to his feet. “Simon? Is that you?” “Of course it is!” responded the voice. “Who else would be watching out for you? Who else would be this near to you?” Aaron crept toward the shaking leaves. Although Aaron and Simon were neighbors and best friends, they did not embrace. They could not. The Law was clear. Lepers – even childhood best friends – were to be driven away, never to be seen or touched again. “Here, friend,” Simon said, pointing to a bowl of soup and a crust of bread on the ground. The pock-marked man glanced at his friend, then threw himself at the food. “I have water there, too.” He watched as Aaron devoured the bread and tipped the bowl to drink in gulps. Simon wished he had brought more. “Do you get much food?” he asked. Aaron shook his head. He couldn’t begin to answer such a question. How could I possibly describe life as a leper? he thought. It’s a living death. “Sometimes good people leave food at the edge of a village or farm,“ he answered, leaving out that often he ate after foxes and rats had scavenged. If was good enough for rats, then it was good enough for lepers. Simon cleared his throat. “I have news, Aaron.” “Is it Anna?” reacted the red-scarred man, dropping the empty bowl. “Tell me! Is it Anna?” “No, no, my friend, Anna is well.” He wasn’t sure how to say the rest. “I’ve seen something. Something that may be good news, hopeful news.” Simon began pacing between the trees. “It began when I heard rumors – fanciful tales, really – about a healer who walks around the whole of Galilee. A healer who cures everyone he touches.” He glanced at Aaron. “Even lepers, Aaron, even lepers. “I had to see for myself. I walked down toward Capernaum, stopping in every village to ask how I could find the healer I had heard about. People told me stories about the healer, and some claimed to have been cured by him.” Simon paused, remembering their stories. “How could I ever forget those people? The father with an arm around a son who had been mute and afflicted for years. A widow who clasped her only son and wept, describing the moment the healer had returned him from death.” Aaron’s anxious voice interrupted. “Simon, what happened? Did you find this healer? Did you?” Simon gazed at his friend. “Yes, I did,” he whispered. The more he told his story, the more he felt he was describing a dream. After a few hours’ walk that day, hours filled with unbelievable stories of an indescribable healer, he had stood on a ridge overlooking a wide valley. Below him, two crowds of a hundred or more people had walked toward each other on the valley’s sandy road. The crowd moving from his left had been composed of adults, mostly men, but also a surprising number of women. It had been the other crowd that caught his attention. It had moved in a strange way – slow and halting. He slid down the hill through the scrub brush for a closer look at the slower crowd. It was an astonishing sight: parents carrying infants and toddlers; people of all ages who could walk only with a limp or supported on the shoulder of a loved one; litters carrying those debilitated by some sickness; the blind being led by the hand. It was a band of the afflicted. Yet there was something else. The crowd radiated a joyous hopefulness, as if anticipating good things about to happen. In fact, the crowd was singing! The lame and blind and sick were singing in hope. Simon paused in his story. Aaron stood transfixed, barely remembering to breathe. “Then the two crowds stood in front of each other,” Simon continued slowly. How could he possibly describe what he saw next? How could he describe the indescribable? “Then a man stepped into the singing crowd. He went from person to person and touched them. And he healed every one. No matter the sickness, all were healed.” Aaron couldn’t help himself. He burst out: “Did you see any lepers in this singing crowd? Did you see any lepers healed?” I have to tell my friend the truth, Simon thought. False hope is worse than no hope. “I don’t know. Perhaps. There was a small group of men clustered at the edge of the crowd. They were all wearing rags. Maybe they were lepers.” He saw his friend grimace darkly. “But this I know, Aaron,” he firmly continued. “The healer touched all those rag-clothed men, too, and immediately each man began leaping in the air and clutching each other, their heads thrown back to the heavens.” What had to be said had been said. It was a wild story, Simon admitted to himself. But no wilder than the stories he’d heard in Nain and Cana and nearby hamlets, wild stories about a man who healed everyone he touched. The mist had evaporated in the sun. The women had returned home from the well. The two friends were alone. It was Aaron’s turn to speak. “This healer, this man who with a touch cures any ill, in which direction was he walking?” His words were so quietly uttered that the breeze rustling through olive leaves nearly blew them away. “He was walking away from the sea. Perhaps toward Cana. I heard he has family there.” “So near,” Aaron mused. Three miles. Four steep ridges. He made his decision. “Tell Anna I was here. Tell her that I hope to return whole. And, Simon, if I am not made whole, I will not come back.” “Go find the healer, friend,” was all Simon could say. God, please help this man, he prayed silently. Aaron set off at a run up the slope. Driven by hurt and hope, he vowed that when his bursting lungs yelled “stop!”, then he would walk. He vowed that when his blistered feet yelled “no more!”, then he would crawl. He vowed that if he couldn’t crawl, then he would wait beside the road and hope that the healer walked that way. Two ridges were behind him when his lungs demanded air, and he slowed to a labored walk. His mind raced faster than his feet. How will I find the healer if he is in a crowd? Simon said that nothing stood out about the healer’s appearance. Who should I ask for? I don’t know his name. Will he be disgusted by me? Will the crowd throw stones to keep me away? The sun was high when he saw a crowd moving toward him. It took only a glance to spot the man who was his only hope. Of course! The healer had to be the man surrounded by waves of children. He summoned his breath, roused his legs, and sprinted straight toward the man. The crowd was spooked by the sight of a scar-faced man clad in rags spurring full-tilt toward them. Many people stepped back while others fled for safety. Aaron threw himself to the ground, raining tears on the healer’s feet as if hope were washing from his soul all the hurt he had endured. “I know you are the healer,” he cried out. “I know you can heal me. If you would heal even a leper, please heal me!” He felt the grip of the healer’s hands on his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. Waves of energy seemed to course through his body at this first human touch since he had been driven away from home. The healer fixed Aaron’s gaze on him and moved a hand to Aaron’s chest. “I bring you good news. I have come to heal more than affliction. I have come to cure souls, for everyone – everyone – is a leper in their souls.” At these words, a force rushed through Aaron’s body a second time, as if a violent windstorm had blown him about and then dumped him into an icy river. The jolt shocked his heart and every bone, muscle and nerve. He would have collapsed were the healer not holding him. The crowd gasped. Aaron slowly raised both hands to his face. His skin felt smooth – no ridges of scars, no hills of sores. His skin was smooth! As smooth as he remembered Anna’s to be. The healer moved both hands to Aaron’s arms. There were light outlines in the skin on both forearms. “I leave you these shadow-scars for the sake of your soul. Remember this day,” he said. “Now go to the temple, and show yourself to the priest. And then go home to your Anna,” he smiled. “If you run fast, you will be home by sunset.” Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith, Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) By Adrian David A priest wrestles between vengeance and forgiveness upon hearing a murderer's tragic confession. Turin, Italy – 1995 The church bell rang out as the morning sun arched over the horizon. Standing at the side of the gate, Cesare stubbed out his cigarette and peered up at the tall, white spire adorning the church. He took a deep, pained breath and entered the house of worship. He yearned for the calm within its walls, his tortured soul aching for comfort. The church was empty except for the lone figure of a priest kneeling before the altar. Sunlight penetrated the blues, reds, greens, and yellows of the stained-glass windows, forming the shape of a large dove upon the floor of the nave. Clouds of smoke wafted from candles throughout the sacred space. Cesare dragged his feet up the aisle, passing the polished wooden pews. His chest tightened; his steps faltered. Painful memories flooded in despite his efforts to suppress them. He froze in his tracks, crippled by his swirling thoughts and tortured conscience. He clutched his chest and collapsed into the nearest pew. * * * Giovanni made the sign of the cross and stood. Adjusting his cassock, he turned from the altar and headed to the rectory. He slowed his pace upon seeing a scrawny, forlorn man. The stranger looked out of place in the pristine church. His receding grey hairline, shabby beard, unkempt clothes, and worn-out bag told a story of strife. The wrinkles on his tanned face exuded misery, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his distress. Driven by curiosity and his vocation to help, Giovanni approached the lost soul. “Buongiorno. Is everything alright?” The stranger remained frozen, seemingly unaware of what was happening around him. Giovanni leaned against the pew and cleared his throat, drawing the man’s bloodshot eyes to his face. * * * Cesare scanned the bespectacled priest from head to toe. Dressed in an immaculate white cassock, the thirty-something priest had a pleasant, clean-shaven face that radiated calm. “Did you say something, Padre?” Cesare croaked, licking his dry, cracked lips. “I was just checking if you were alright.” The priest smiled. “Have I seen you here before?” “This is my first visit to your church, Padre.” “That’s good to know. It’s only been a couple of months since my ordination and assignment here. Welcome.” The priest extended his hand. “I’m Giovanni.” “Cesare.” He clasped Giovanni’s hand in his own, offering a feeble handshake. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Giovanni continued. “Your accent… You’re from Sicily, right?” “Si, I… er… just finished my prison sentence.” Cesare bit his lower lip, trying to cloak his guilt. “I came to Turin to meet my cellmate’s family and give them some money. I thought of spending some time in this church before leaving.” With a disarming smile, Giovanni flung his arm around Cesare’s shoulder. “Come, let me show you around.” Incredulous, Cesare stared at the priest, whose friendliness and courtesy didn’t fade even after hearing about his circumstances. “No, Padre.” He shook his head. “I can’t stay here any longer. A sinner like me doesn’t deserve to be here.” “There are no saints or sinners here.” Giovanni’s eyes sparkled. “We are all children of God.” “But…” Cesare raised his palms to his face. “I have done terrible things.” “Would you like to make a confession and clear your mind?” Giovanni adjusted his round glasses. “I am not ready.” Cesare slumped his shoulders and hung his head in shame. “Remember,” the priest said, holding Cesare’s arm. “Whatever you confide in me is between you and God alone.” “I am sorry.” Cesare got to his feet. “I can’t. I have to leave.” Giovanni stood, towering above Cesare. “My seal of confession prohibits me from uttering a word to anyone.” He looked right into his eyes. “Whatever your sins are, I will take them to my grave. A burden shared is a burden halved. Pour out your heart to the Lord, and he will give you rest.” Cesare’s reluctance subsided. The time was ripe to get the burden off his chest. A chance at redemption was knocking at his door, and only a fool would refuse it. He gave a slight nod. “Fine, Padre.” As Giovanni led him to the confessional chamber, Cesare prepared to spill the emotions he had repressed for many years. * * * A grille separated the two halves of the wooden confessional. Lamplight filtered through the grille, scattering bright dots across the walls and illuminating the small metallic crucifix. Giovanni perched on his seat on one side and straightened the purple stole around his neck. He heard Cesare kneel on the other side of the confessional, knees pressing on the cushion. Giovanni turned the pages of his gilded Bible to the third chapter of Colossians. With a gentle voice, he put his finger to the page and tracked as he read the passage: “Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.” He brought his ear closer to the grille, ready to listen to Cesare’s sins. Cesare said faintly, “Bless me, Padre, for I have sinned.” “How long has it been since your last confession?” “Years. Decades. I don’t know. The last time I made a confession was when I was young.” “What happened after that?” “Life turned miserable. My babbo left our family for another woman. This broke my mamma’s heart, and she became ill.” Cesare choked, his voice breaking. “Everything changed after she died. I ran away from my home and started doing all kinds of dirty jobs to survive — selling drugs, counterfeiting banknotes, pimping out whores. Out of desperation, I indulged in all kinds of evils. Before long, I targeted rich families and robbed their houses while they were away. “That was when…” He paused and groaned. “I did a terrible thing. It has haunted me for the past fifteen years. A memory I can’t escape.” Giovanni leaned forward, listening intently. This wasn’t the first crime to be confessed to him. He had been taught not to be affected by the confessions of his congregation, ensuring he didn’t react to even the worst of transgressions. It was not his place to judge; only God had the right to do that. Giovanni said in a soothing tone, “Do not fear. No matter how great your sin is, God is always here to forgive.” Troubled words spilled from Cesare’s mouth. “Fifteen years ago, I was robbing houses in Sicily. I reached the town of Salemi and targeted a vacant mansion. After hearing that the owner was away on vacation, I broke into the house at midnight and hunted for valuables. I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late. I was in the wrong house... and I wasn’t alone.” Pulse racing, Giovanni furrowed his eyebrows. “As I was breaking the safe open, a man caught me red-handed. I pulled out my knife, only to intimidate him.” Cesare cleared his throat. “He kept fighting me, and the next thing I knew, there was blood everywhere. I stabbed him in the heat of the moment. I swear I didn’t mean to do that. His wife came running up the stairs, carrying a baby. Her eyes bulged when she saw her husband lying dead. I’ll never forget the look on her face. I tried to muffle her screams with my hands, but she bit me. In a fit of rage, I grabbed her throat and strangled her. The baby fell from her arms to the floor. The cries grew louder, and I was afraid of waking the neighbours. I took a pillow from the bed and…” He hit his head against the grille. His voice trembled. “I smothered the baby to death. Even now, I can hear the child crying. It torments me in my nightmares.” Giovanni swallowed, struggling to keep his breath even. A sudden coldness hit him at the core. “I picked up whatever valuables I could lay my hands on and fled the town. I later learned that the murder remained unsolved.” Cesare coughed. “Three years later, I started working for a mob boss, and soon I was arrested for smuggling drugs and imprisoned. Throughout my days in prison, I never stopped regretting my crime in Salemi. I couldn’t sleep at night; I couldn’t eat. Whenever I heard a baby crying, I covered my ears. Whenever I looked into the mirror, I saw a monster.” Giovanni gritted his teeth. Icy tendrils robbed him of action, freezing him in place. He could do nothing but listen, paralyzed with shock. His focus on the confession wavered. A tidal wave of tragic memories washed over him. Fifteen Years Earlier Standing near the phone in his boarding school dormitory, Giovanni excitedly waited to hear the sweet voices of his parents. They called Saturday mornings at ten without fail. They had called him the previous week for his fifteenth birthday. His eagerness was cut short when one of his teachers stepped into the room and beckoned him to follow. “Gio, the headmaster wants to see you.” Giovanni’s stomach twisted at the urgency in his teacher’s voice. According to his classmates, the headmaster only summoned bad students to his office. Giovanni strived to be first in his class, a model student. He aspired to follow in the footsteps of his father — a self-made businessman who worked hard and built his wealth from the ground up to ensure his family’s well-being. Giovanni trailed behind his teacher. What could it be? Why is he calling me? What have I done wrong? On entering the headmaster’s office, a sense of dread enveloped Giovanni. The headmaster paced the length of his office, pausing as soon as he saw him. “Please sit down, Gio. Have some water.” He motioned to the chair and handed him a glass. Giovanni gave him a nervous smile. “You must be wondering why I called you.” The headmaster gestured to the trunks and bags in the corner. “Your teacher packed your belongings. He will accompany you home. From now on, you must be brave. Braver than you think you can be.” Giovanni straightened his round glasses and blinked like a confused owl. The headmaster tapped his shoulder and let out a deep sigh. “You need to go home to Salemi, son. Something terrible has happened.” The glass of water fell to the floor and shattered. Giovanni’s head spun as the headmaster told him of his family’s fates. The walls closed in on him, and he struggled to breathe. A stream of hot tears rolled down his cheeks, blurring the world around him. He collapsed on the floor and fainted. After he recovered consciousness, Giovanni moved as if through a dream. It was a traumatic memory, one that would follow him throughout his lifetime — the parish priest uttering the final prayers as his father, mother, and baby sister were laid to rest in the town cemetery. His sanity was buried alongside them. The darkness of no one left to call family, of being rendered an orphan, engulfed Giovanni. A walking corpse, he was as dead inside as his family was in the ground. The parish priest took Giovanni under his wing and enrolled him in the Don Bosco Seminary. After several years of rigorous study and devout adherence, Giovanni found his calling. Soon, he was ordained a priest. Despite learning to forgive and forget, bitterness still festered within him like a gaping wound. * * * The terrible truth was too much for Giovanni’s soul to bear. The man he long abhorred was seeking absolution. From him. For the merciless killing of his family. The reminder of his family’s death tore at his insides. So many things ran through his mind. If only Cesare hadn’t broken into his house that uneventful day. If only he hadn’t killed his parents. If only his baby sister had survived. His heart hammered in his chest; his knuckles knotted. As a man of God, Giovanni knew what was demanded of him, but his vision was streaked with red. All the pain he’d locked away had culminated into a ticking bomb, waiting to explode. Cesare cried out in anguish. “I want redemption, Padre. Will God have mercy on a wretched sinner like me?” Hate was an ugly thing, and on a priest, doubly so. Fists clenched in fury, Giovanni levelled his gaze on the sharp edge of the metallic crucifix in front of him. He imagined ramming it right into Cesare’s throat, just as the deranged animal had killed his father. The jaws of hate gnawed on Giovanni’s last nerve. The road of retribution led him to the slopes of madness. Revenge was the only thing the raw wound of his heart demanded. He yearned to kill Cesare. To make him suffer a torturous death would be the sweetest wine. Voices inside Giovanni’s head challenged his sanity. His tormented brain screamed with shrill cries. Kill that bastard! Make him pay! No, forgive him. If you kill him, you’d be no different from him. Listen to me! I said, kill him. Do it for your father, your mother, your baby sister. What will that make you? No better than him. You are God’s servant on earth. Forgiveness is for the weak. Monsters like him don’t deserve to live. Spare his soul! Remember, those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. Heaven and hell twisted together in his mind like a storm. The contradicting voices grew louder. Kill him! Forgive him! Regaining his senses, Giovanni took quick, short breaths. He bit his fist, trying to muffle his inner agony. Help me, Lord. He squeezed his eyes shut. His moral compass wavered; the demons pounding in his mind raged. Yet, in all the darkness, Giovanni saw a ray of hope at the end of the tunnel. The hope that love could transcend all. The forgiveness that Christ offered to the world. The grace that redeemed even the worst of sinners, the redeeming grace. It dawned on Giovanni that salvation was not a reward for the righteous; it was a gift for the guilty. Killing Cesare would not bring back his family. His parents would never wish for him to perpetuate the cycle of violence. Retribution would not ultimately bring him peace. Forgiveness was the most fitting thing he could offer to someone who had wounded him. Giovanni took a deep breath and decided to follow his conscience. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and” — Giovanni gulped down his sobs and brushed his tears — “sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Cesare rested his head against the grille and feebly muttered, “Amen.” Giovanni bit his lower lip. “The Lord has heard your confession today. For your penance, you must vow to commit your life to one of goodwill and charity. I have forgiven… er…” he stuttered. “God has forgiven your sins. Go forth and spread the mercy He has granted you. Go in peace.” * * * After all these years, the caged bird was set free. At long last. Rising from the kneeler, Cesare crossed himself and left without saying another word. He retraced his steps toward the gate. He heaved a sigh of relief and glanced at his reflection in a nearby puddle. A new man stared back at him. One redeemed from the unforgiving clutches of sin. A man smiling for the first time in decades. A man who was born again. * * * Back in the chamber, Giovanni slammed his fists into his temples. Misery broke through his fragile control. His throat closed in grief. Waves of despair washed over him, drowning him in the dark days of his family’s demise. Deep down, he was sure his parents would be proud of him from above. No matter how much his soul screamed in anguish, he had done the right thing — the difficult thing. Giovanni struggled to his feet and dragged his weary self out of the chamber. He fell to his knees in front of the altar. The candles cast a flickering red glow upon him. With tears in his eyes, Giovanni lifted his gaze toward Christ on His cross. Mercy had triumphed over vengeance; love had overcome hate. Adrian David writes advertisements by day and short fiction by night. His stories explore themes like faith, love, hope and everything in between, from the mundane to the sublime.
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