A Soul's Journey

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/11/1998 3:53 PM Central Standard Time
From: St Franciz

The soft footfalls once again found the front steps of St. John the Baptist Church. The facade was a bit more worn then he remembered and the steps not quite so high as they once had been. The old paint had peeled and left curled peach strips strewn across the half tended grass encircling the outer walls of the building. Churches always seemed to be painted the most awful colors, but then they were not lavish establishments that could afford
grandiose exterior design. Humility, compassion, and virtue did not allow for such trappings. It was good to see that while the world raced for the dollar, this crumbling bastion of hope still stood tall and proud against the tide. While the paint had dulled, the power of the message and the beacon of faith still shone brightly in the enclosing darkness.

The pastor did not immediately look up from his sweeping of the steps, as the footfalls were so slight. The sound of the wicker broom, crushing the leaves and the old wads of trash that threatened to overtake his small parish, had garnered all of the man's attention. Even the passing of his fellow man was not enough to distract him. It wasn't until one of the broad double doors shut, that he turned his head and gazed backwards. He hoped it was not
the roving kids again; the lost children of Christ who felt the need to steal the precious pennies from families who could not afford to give, yet still let their small coins ring true against the cool metal of the collection plate.

The pastor moved to the entrance of the Lord's home and held the large iron handle that would open wide the doors to the inner building.

He had tangled with the children before and had paid heavy prices. The bumps and bruises healed over time, but the aching of his heart always remained. He had watched them run laughing into the streets to spend the few pennies gained, breaking the artifacts that held so little meaning to them.

He paused, not afraid for himself, but afraid to stand amongst the few faithful that remained and tell them of their latest loss. To endure the passion stolen from their spirits and to see the hope drained from their eyes, always made him understand how people feel when they lose faith.

He ventured inside, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light of the votive candles as they burned within; a concession the pastor had made when a family came to him in need of food and there was simply no money to give them. After reviewing the finances, the only place where money could be had was to cut electricity. Electricity was expensive, so the church was only lit for evening masses ensuring that the word of God could be read. So now Father
explained to his children that the light of God would have to be enough to rain down upon them, except in the darkest of nights.

Even when his older eyes adjusted, he could not see a single person in the pews. There were no sounds of laughter and glass shattering as there had been in previous times. No, the church resided silent as it always did during this time of the day. Only the sound of the older man's breathing could be heard in the quiet vortex that was this parish.

Thinking himself a fool, the pastor once again heaved up his wicker broom, intent in expelling the dirt that had gathered at the floor of His home. He touched the door, ready to push it open and return outside, when a brief red flicker caught the edge of his eyes and refracted off a lens in his wire rim glasses. He turned slowly to the right and glanced up at the light that had attracted his attention.

He paused a long moment, gazing at the small rounded bulb above the pair of double oak doors. The confessional light was on. It was not a mistake. It was not an accident. One would purposely have to flip the switch to indicate his occupancy. The church's wiring was old and dangerously outside of local building code, but he doubted very seriously that it was a glitch. If anything, the light would stop working, rather then begin working under it's
own power.

The pastor peered through one of the small stained glass windows of the parish. It was mid afternoon. Most of his parishioners would be at work toiling to feed their families. The older women of the church were instructed to stay home, assured that God would be brought to them. Too many muggings of the elderly had forced his hand and he grudgingly told his elder brothers and sisters to stay away from the church, as it was not safe. Many had hissed
at him and said that Satan’s minions would not bar their path to God. In the end however, too many beatings and a death had shaken the belief of even the most adamant churchgoer. They were now happy to have Father visit their homes or the hospital. After all, they reasoned God was in everyone and not just in some building. For their own sake, Father was inclined to agree with them every time.

Again, the nagging sense of doubt and mistrust wound their way through his heart. A trap perhaps? Some disturbed soul who lurked in the shadows? The pastor leaned his broom against the wall and looked to the tabernacle where the large cross stood. The cross that was a symbol of a man who had gone through pain, anguish and betrayal to serve his brothers and sisters. Was he one to fight the calling that had brought him to this place? Was now the time
he would let his fear win over his ministry?

While his hands shook, he reached up and adjusted the white collar that graced his neck and attempted to smooth his wrinkled clerics. He strode to one door of the confessional. His fingers tapped on the bronze door handle momentarily as he whispered a silent prayer for strength. Taking the handle, he opened the door wide and slipped into the small unlit booth. Resting on the chair, he placed his hand on the small window that connected the two rooms
and slid it aside.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession."

The voice echoed from the alternate chamber enshrouding the room in a peace the pastor found most odd. It was a man's voice, of that he was sure. But it had such a warm and soothing tone, he was most taken aback. He stumbled a bit in his reply, unable to give the normal text response; the response that he had repeated over a thousand times in seminary.

"Know that the Lord absolves all sins to those who are humble in his presence. Know that He watches you and protects you in His loving grace all of your days. Tell me my son, what have you to confess to God?"

The pastor blinked hard at himself. He knew his voice had shaken the entire time he had delivered the brief absolution, and that he had hardly sounded like the comforting voice of God to this man. Why was he so nervous?

"I have neglected the calling of the Lord to His ministry, Father. I have failed to convert the faithless and defend the honor of the church. I have failed to restore my Father's house which is now almost completely destroyed."

The pastor almost spoke too soon and said that any father would forgive his son for not repairing a home. Realizing how silly the notion was, it had given him pause. The pastor's mind whirled back to the hours of long study he had willingly subjected himself to as this man's words harkened him back to another place. His lips repeated the words again and again, trying to reach back through volumes of text, trying to remember those words and from
whence they came.

"Not all of us can be St. Francis my son. At times we all stumble in our own efforts. It is God's calling that sets us back to the true path. His words will guide us, if only we should open our ears and our hearts to Him."

It had been St. Francis of Assisi who had been called by those similar words. St. Francis had strolled to the church of St. Damian, which had been nearly destroyed and feared abandoned. It was said that a spirit had led him to the church to pray. There, Francis had laid prostrate before the crucifix and was stirred by a visitation. The voice had called to him by name, ordering him to repair the damage of the church. Consumed by the spirit, Francis
broke from his worldly father's life and devoted himself to the mission of rebuilding the church. Treating money as if it were sand, the once wealthy Francis donated all his money to the sole priest that still resided within the walls of the church. Fearing the angry reactions of Francis' father, the priest refused to take the money, but allowed Francis to remain and do the work of the Lord.

So caught up in the memory of the tale of the eight hundred and seventeen year old saint, the pastor almost missed the following lines from his brief guest.

"You are so correct Father", the voice said sadly as it pitched high and low with measured words. It danced over the syllables and ended in a calm tone that relaxed the priest once more.

He had feared some religious nut had sat on the other side of him. But this man, this voice! Surely no evil could come from such a voice. He leaned forward as he strained to hear the words of the man again.

"I suppose all of us can only walk in the path which we are directed to. We can only accomplish the missions in life as the Lord sees fit. But I will not rest in my mission to comfort the faithless, Father. I will not rest in my mission to bring about the Lord's justice to those who would seek to harm His message or corrupt His grace."

The pastor took a moment to take all that in. He nodded to himself before he spoke. Here was a man of conviction and faith. He seemed to lack, however, the simple grace of God that he seemed wont to protect.

"Just remember my son, that we all are equal in the eyes of God. That no man is in a position to judge another. We can only hope that by being true to our Lord's word and keeping our hearts open, that we may bring others closer to His vision."

The pastor paused to allow the man to speak once more, confirming this simple act of grace. Long moments ticked away as the pastor waited to hear the musical voice of the man that sat in the darkness with him. Nothing came. One minute drained into the next and no sound came from within the other room.

"My son?" The pastor asked, searching the shadows as his eyes narrowed and tried to make out the form that should have been leaning in prayer right beside him. Failing to see anything, the priest rose and exited the booth. Opening the other door across from him, he jumped when he saw it was empty. As his eyes narrowed, he saw a small stack of bills on the chair where the gentleman should have been sitting.

Picking up the small note pinned to one of the stacks, the priest read the following in a bold, sprawling hand writing.


A Gift from
Francesco Bernardone
The Bounty of the
Lord's work


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Francesco walked down the streets to his small home. He opened the door, not having to pause to unlock it. The door was always open. Anything anyone wanted to take was theirs to have. He had nothing for himself. The room was sparse and free of clutter. A small night stand graced one corner of the room. His hands grasped the knobs of the table and slid the drawer open. A small book rested inside. Taking the book up along with a pen, he began to write
once more:

Dearest Brother Layne,

I hope this book finds you in good health and graced with the spirit of our Creator. I pass this along to you as your soul seems most troubled. This book has given me strength in my darkest times. It is my hope that it will bring peace to you.

I have witnessed the anger and spite that you have brought into people's lives. I have had one person in particular contact me, wishing that your blight upon the souls of the Outback be ended.

As St. Catherine brought the word of the Lord to those subjugated by Maxentius, so I bring it unto you. I do not wish to see your soul lost to hate or anger. I have been given one opportunity to redeem your soul. If you balk at this chance, I fear I cannot be responsible for the actions that are set into motion.



Yours in lasting faith,
Francesco Bernardone



Wrapping the book in plain white paper, Francesco drew a string about it and looked up the address for the Graft Corporation. Having finished his writing, he returned the pen to the drawer and took the package to a nearby post box; dropping it inside, he had faith it would find it's way to the man for whom it was intended.

It was now time to return to the Outback and watch this poor, troubled, lost soul attempt to function through anger and hostility. Francesco had been there many times, in many guises. But tonight, perhaps, he would just go as himself and watch from a quiet table.

He would need to speak to the fellow who had brought all this to his attention again. His offer of either converting Layne's soul or helping the church himself, was indeed most appealing. Not every soul could be saved. But perhaps with proper encouragement and funding from fellows such as this......it would be a bit easier.