Father Joseph

Here's a short story I did recently... actually the first I've ever done independent of school.



Silence filled the room—every corner and crevice was laden with it. Then, ever so faintly, the sound of a murmuring voice crept through the thick silence. It bounced around through the empty pews, then scampered up the alter.

The great, high-ceilinged room was darkly lit by sunlight streaming in through heavily tainted windows. The murmuring echoes merged into a deep mellow voice.

“Were you there,” it sang, deep and mournfully, “When they crucified my Lord.”

An ancient man in a black robe walked slowly into the spacious sanctuary.

“Were you there... when they crucified my Lord...” the strains rang through the whole room now.

With wrinkled hands, Father Joseph straightened his high, black collar. After clearing his throat with a cough, he slowly continued pacing towards the alter. All the while, he gazed thoughtfully ahead of him, passing row after row of silent pews.

He loved performing the children's program on Good Friday. Then again, what old man didn't like children?

Children. He sighed deeply.

Those beautiful, innocent, round little faces; all gazing intently at him, all soaking in his every word.

“A joyous blessing from the Lord,” he told himself.

By now, he had reached the raised platform where the Sunday sermons were taught. Hands behind his back, he turned pensively to face the pews. To his surprise, they were not completely empty.

A man was sitting, in the very back of the sanctuary, dressed meticulously in a dark suit. His head was bowed, and his hands were folded in his lap. Father Joseph studied the man, who didn't move even the slightest.

The cool silence was shattered by a cheery, “Good morning Father Joseph!”

The aged priest lifted his gaze from the silent, unmoving man, and followed the jumpy gait of a young woman walking down the center isle.

“Greetings, Miss Mary.”

“Sorry I'm late, the bus got caught in a traffic jam. I was listening to the radio, and it sounded like there was a murder or something,” she said, skipping up the alter stairs and quickly passing Father Joseph. “There were police cars everywhere on Richard Street. You can just see them from the bus stop out front,” Mary waved a hand, gesturing towards the front of the cathedral.

“How terrible,” said the old priest, once more resting his gaze on the man in the back row. After a moment of silence he asked,“Is everything ready for the service?”

“Yes, me and Alisha set it all up yesterday.”

There was a rustle behind him as Mary slipped into her black robe. Carefully, she smoothed her long brown hair and adjusted the cross hanging from her neck.

At that moment, a small family walked into the sanctuary and wandered around looking for a suitable place to sit. Mary looked up from tying her black sash.

“Oh, brother John's out at the front door greeting people,” she said.

“Very well. Let us greet them as well. Come.”

Father Joseph started slowly down the alter, closely followed by Mary.



*****************



“Now, if you have anything you wish to be forgiven for, or you want to thank the Lord for something, or if you just need to tell him something, then write a few words, or draw a small picture,” said Father Joseph, looking with a warm smile at the group of children in front of him. “There are baskets along the side of the room with crayons and pencils and paper. When you are done, fold up your paper and put it in the basket.” He motioned to a large wicker basked before him. “This is just between you and the Lord. Go on now.”

The group dispersed, and the children were led around the room by their parents to where the baskets of paper and writing tools lay. Fondly, Father Joseph surveyed the children skipping around, or crouching on the ground here and there with pencil clutched in hand. He took a few steps forward, leaving the basket behind him.

Then, he noticed the man in the dark suit was no longer present. He slowly swept the sanctuary with his gaze, but to no avail. The man had followed behind the children and parents as the group had made their way around the cathedral, discussing the Easter story. The whole time, he had watched the children sadly, almost enviously.

A hand pressed Father Joseph's shoulder. Behind him, a calm voice said, “A beautiful sight, is it not?”

Father Joseph turned and nodded. It was the same man in the dark suit. “Yes.”

Wistfully, the young man gazed at the children that filled the room. “They are the very picture of life and innocence. They know nothing of the evil world surrounding them. Their parents protect them well.”

Silently, Father Joseph turned his gaze back to the little ones, and nodded in agreement.

The dark young man clasped his hands behind his back sadly. He nodded to the old priest, and walked down the stairs of the alter, back to the last row of pews, where he took his seat.


*************


There was now no one left in the cathedral except Father Joseph. The families had all left, as had John and Mary and Alisha—those that had helped put on the service.

Low strains of music vibrated through the room as Father Joseph carefully folded up his black robe. He was humming to himself in a preoccupied manner.

After storing his robe in the dressing room, he donned a tweed sports coat and straightened his crimson-red tie. Still humming, he treaded up to the alter, and bent down to pick up the basket filled with folded pieces of paper. Unhurriedly, he lifted the basket and exited the sanctuary. When he reached a trash barrel in the reception room, he dumped the papers in.

A single, unfolded piece drifted to the ground, and landed face up. In strong, bold script was scribbled,


God help me. I had to. But it will all be over soon. I'm sorry.


Just then, the loud screech of tires bounced eerily through the room. The ancient priest stood still for a moment, gazing off into space. There were a few yells and screams outside, barely audible from inside the cathedral. The wailing siren of an ambulance in the distance grew a little louder, stopping out front of the cathedral.

With a sad smile, Father Joseph picked up the paper and reverently folded it.

“You are forgiven,” he said.

Thoughtfully, he paced back into the sanctuary and quietly began to sing.

“Ama- -zing Grace,”

He started down the center isle. “How swe- -et the sound...”

Slowly, the mellow strains of the hymn faded, and every crack and crevice of the sanctuary was once more laden with silence.