AMERICAN VESPERS - THE STORY
It was a haven amidst the unthinkable. He stumbled onto it in the waning hours of the day, a
shadow that stood out differently in the last glowing embers of what used to be a neighboring town. It
took his breath away with relief instead of fright. The shape of the building, even missing part of a wall
and half of its roof, gave away its purpose. He had seen many shadows over the last few days. Shadows
of stores and gas stations. Shadows of houses that had once been homes. Shadows of people. There
were other sorts of shadows. Dark, ferocious ones that stalked him as he slinked between burned out
cars and fallen power lines. They were things that used be of his nightmares, not the reality of his
waking day. Shadows with unwashed hair and bodies that brandished clubs lined with barbed wire or
nails as they prowled around the dust covered remains of streets and neighborhoods. He had been able
to elude them by keeping himself low and small. Lying perfectly still when needed, his body curled
against the tire of a freight truck with a burned out cargo hold. It didn’t matter which side he was on or
which side had fired first. The result was now the burned out remains of what had once been his
country.
He went to open the door but it was locked shut. The blown out wall left a gap large enough for
a man to crawl through, but its height made it too high to jump and grab onto and he would surely cut
his hands on the jagged masonry staring down at him like broken teeth from a gaping, injured mouth.
He circled the rest of the building, looking for any other crack in the walls, any other entry point. He
came full circle, finding himself back at the front door. He pulled on it again, harder this time, praying
the lock had been weakened in the blast. He pulled again, straining his arms and arching his back, his
hands blanching with the effort. He backed away from the unmoving door, trying to assess his options.
Despair began to creep in. The heavy feeling that made his breath come in pants and his brain begin to
dull. He had to get in. Nightfall was coming and he had seen no other shelter from the shrill sounds in
the night that herald the dangerous shadows. In desperation he kicked the door several times hard with
a foot. Unconsciously a desperate prayer escaped his lips. “Please God. Please help me.”
He stopped kicking and backed away. The door stared back at him, unmoving. Closing his eyes
and sighing deeply he turned his back to the door and sat down on the worn concrete steps. He needed
to move if he were to survive, but moving seemed so difficult right now. He felt the cold of the step
seeping through his thin pants. The sensation brought him back to the primal need to find shelter.
Opening his eyes he pulled himself up and grabbed one of the side rails, inching his way down the steps,
when it caught his eye. Crouching down he reached over to the patch of bark dust lining the steps and
picked it up. Once, it had been a bauble of femininity. Now, it was his lifeline. He dusted off the shinny
hair pin lined with tiny topaz colored jewels, bent it apart, and placed it in the lock. Too many times he
had used this trick to get into his father’s locked tool kit, he recollected. Never thinking it was a skill that
could save his life. The lock clicked and he turned the handle, feeling the weight of the door move
inward and his held breath leave his chest. He scrambled in; shooting a darting glance into the ash filled
gloom behind as he quickly shut the door and turned the lock.
It was a church. Not just any church, a Catholic Church. He stood frozen for a moment, taking
in the silence and magnitude of the place. At first he heard nothing but his own heartbeat and
breathing. Then sounds began to whisper to him in the darkness. Remnants of hymns sang, prayers
offered and kneelers lifting. He held onto the memory of those sounds, so alive in the silence, it was like
he had once walked among those sounds. You have, the logical part of his brain answered. You did,
three days ago. Three days ago he was in his home church. Three days ago it was Sunday. How could
all of this have happened three days ago? He moved his legs, the sound of broken plaster and drywall
loud under his feet in the reverberating silence. He moved down the middle isle, dodging a pew blown
into splinters and a pool of muddy water where rain had poured through a hole in the roof. The air
smelled musty but seemed to improve the closer he got to the altar.
Hesitantly, he sat down in the front pew and looked at the crucifix hanging over the altar. Both
were surprisingly still intact, the altar even appearing to have been meticulously cleared of debris.
Marveling on this for a moment he let his hand relax and dropped the hair pin. Its tinkling sound
pierced through the silence as it hit the ground. Startled by the sound despite knowing full well its
origin he leaned over quickly and grabbed it from the floor. Coming back up he looked again at the tiny
object in his hand. Before it had been a tool for a desperate job, but now, laying there in his dirty palm,
he remembered what it was designed for. Not for picking locks to church doors, but for pulling back
hair. A little girl’s hair. He felt the pressure of the grief welling up in his chest before the tears pooled in
his eyes. Three days ago. Three days ago his little girl’s head was before him in the Communion line, a
hair pin on either side of her braid. Three days ago he was changing a bike tire with his son. Three days
ago the land his Grandfather had fought to defend had fought and destroyed itself. The sob escaped his
mouth before he was even aware he was crying. Putting his head in his hands he let the tears roll down
his cheeks and wept. In the silence broken only by his occasional sobs he suddenly heard a soft
crunching sound to his left. Startled and frightened in an instant he whipped up his head and turned
toward the sound, knowing deep down he was in no position to defend himself should the next moment
be an attack.
It was a man standing next to him, one hand on the pew as if to steady himself and other raised
to show he was unarmed. Sadness and sympathy etched across his face and a dingy white collar ringed
his throat. He reached out his hand.
“I am Father Elias.”
Hesitating for only a second he grabbed the outstretched hand. “Thomas.”
They sat in silence for a while in the front pew, both understanding there were very few words
to sum up what was happening. Father Elias had stayed when all the others of the parish had left. He
said no more and Thomas simply nodded, understanding. Thomas took in more of the building while
they sat. The shattered bits of stained glass on the ground, the cracked baptismal font, the Stations of
the Cross with the plaster nose of Jesus sheared clean off in one and his whole body broken off in
another.
“He’s not broken, you know,” Father Elias remarked, noting Thomas lingering on the broken
Station. “He is still with us, in this place,” he said pointing to a small niche in a wall near the altar. The
glow of the candle gave off a faint red hew around the niche. “We may be broken, but he never will be.”
Thomas gazed at the tabernacle, difficult to make out as the sun had begun to set and the hazy light
coming in was only adding to the shadows creeping toward the hanging candle.
“I feel broken,” Thomas whispered with emphasis. “This nation is broken. We took a beautiful
creation and destroyed it.”
Father Elias looked at Thomas with watered blue eyes, clouded by the weight of his thoughts.
“We did,” he said with a slow nod. “We are at the end of the world as we know it, and its future is
uncertain.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes they were still sad,
but clear. “But, I will end this day as I have vowed to end each day, giving praise and thanks to God.” He
pulled out a liturgical book from the holder, blew off the dust and handed it to Thomas, taking one
himself. “We pray the Vespers. And then my friend, we will sing a burial hymn to our country.”
“I have heard,” Thomas said days later, using a stick to draw in the ashy dirt in the back of the church
where the remains of the rectory sat blacked and burned. “There is a civilization growing here,” he said
stabbing his stick in a round area. “People are walking there. They say there are miracles happening.”
He looked up at Father Elias. “I think we need to go. I think,” he paused. “I think they might be there.”
He did not need to clarify who they might be. The two men had shared enough to know Thomas still
believed his family may have survived. They had been miles apart when the fires began and when he
finally returned to his house he had found only a burnt out shell. He had fallen to his knees in despair,
unable to comprehend such unimaginable pain. It was only after he had stayed that way, hands and
knees covered in ash, for most of the day that he realized the other car was not in the burned out
garage.
Thomas stood up and brushed off his pants in a useless gesture. “Will you go with me, Father?”
Father Elias looked toward the church where he had told himself he would stay then back at Thomas.
The debate lasted only a moment. They both knew to be alone was too dangerous. Reaching into his
dirty pants pocket he took out his pix, gold and gleaming clean. “Yes. We will all go.”
The night was alight with torches and the sound of singing. The sound and brightness called to
Thomas who had been walking the wasteland community for days looking for any word or sign of his
family. His legs were weary and he was thirsty. Night after night he had heard the singing floating from
an open field at the edge of the makeshift town, had seen the torch light and heard the cheers that
pierced through the night punctuated by the sound of a man, a voice crying out in the wilderness. He
had wanted to go several times since they had first arrived, fascinated by what he had heard from those
in the market selling used batteries and other scavenged goods. Father Elias had advised caution. But
tonight, Thomas felt more called than ever and he turned his feet toward the sound, a sirens call.
The crowd he encountered was immense, pressing and surging around Thomas with arms up in
praise. At the front of the crowd was a large makeshift stage of scavenged wood beams and trestles.
And in the middle of the stage was a man. The humble appearance of his stage did nothing to diminish
the power of his words as he rallied those around him.
“My friends God has given us the power and the strength to act in his name. He calls upon us to
fight in his name, to avenge in his name, to seek out those who have brought us to the end of our times,
as was revealed to those who would listen!
Drawn to his words Thomas maneuvered himself through the throng to get closer to the stage.
The Preachers words pierced into his mind and down into his heart. Cheers and spontaneous cries of
praise sounded around him and he felt the energy, the electric current of so many hearts and minds of
the same thought. Yes, togetherness! He thought with joy. Together, like we used to be. As one nation,
under God, indivisible. Together they would set things as they should have always been. This time they
would get it right, with only the most righteous and holy worthy of the crown. Worthy of survival.
He stayed until his eyes were bleary and his throat hoarse from cheering. For the first time
since the fires and destruction had swept across the nation he felt alive. He returned the next night, and
the night after that. He stayed as close to the stage as he could, trying to remember every point the
preacher made so he could repeat it to himself when he went to bed. Yet when he would finally lie
down and repeat the words he felt something troubled in his heart. They lacked the luster and power
they held in those hours of fervent preaching and sounded shallow when he repeated them in his
makeshift sleeping mat. Elated in the evening and troubled by night, Thomas continued to attend the
rallies. He noticed other preachers started setting up stages in the area. They were known as ‘pre-
rallies’, lead up speakers to the main event. Thomas would wander over to them but never felt as
satisfied or spiritually full with their words.
As he milled around the foot stamped grounds in the evening he noticed there were smaller
groups starting within the larger group. He would sit and listen to these group leaders who were
gathered around torch light, speaking words of condemnation, of keeping track of names and numbers
of those who attended so they could be remembered as the worthy ones. A woman passed him a
chipped clipboard with a yellowed paper holding names written on it in crayon. He held the clipboard
for several moments, trying to figure out what it was that felt wrong. He closed his eyes as the words
from Isaiah floated in his mind. See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hand. The clipboard felt
heavy in his hands. Not like the hands of the God who loves him. Who loves all of them. He handed it
quickly back to the woman, avoiding the look of confusion in her face, and quietly walked away.
They left the community and returned to the road, the two of them walking with old milk jugs of
water tied to their belts and unkempt beards. The road was punctuated by the usual scenes they had
become accustomed to. Burned out schools and bus yards. Raided food stores and gas stations. They
walked into a town the name of which Thomas remembered from a time with his wife before they had
kids. There was a stylish hotel with a connected theater they had stayed at for an anniversary. It had
once been a booming place, with dancing and jazz bands and in later years community plays and talent
shows graced the stage. The hotel housed the classiest bar in town and Thomas remembered taking his
wife there for a light drink after a play they watched. He didn’t want that to be the place they decided
to stop for the night, but all of the other structures on the main road were either burned out or looked
to have unsavory guests already in occupancy.
The door lock to the theater had been busted weeks ago so there was no problem entering. The
chamber smelled musty combined with the rank smell of a toilet that no longer had a water supply. The
cavernous theater was almost completely dark and chilly, causing Thomas to hesitate momentarily in
the doorway. Only a small amount of light entered through an emergency exit door and a small skylight
in the balcony section. Father Elias seemed less deterred by the unwelcoming environment and
dutifully went about gathering old pieces of furniture for a fire. Thomas grabbed a metal chair leaning
along the wall and crouched down by the assortment of wood pieces and bits of curtain Father Elias had
amassed. He layered the wood pieces on the metal of the chair and struck his match. The flames
lapped at the cloth of the curtain and slowly turned their attention to the wood. He sat back on his
heels and watched the flames. He could not see where Father Elias had wandered to so he took this
moment. Pulling off the tattered backpack he relieved from a store several weeks back he pulled out his
most prized possessions. His house had burned, but his car, before it became non functional, had not.
And in that car was a picture his mother had given him after a recent family reunion. He remembered
her giving it to him, the laugh he gave her saying no one printed pictures anymore, and the way he had
carelessly thrown it in the glove compartment after they drove away.
He looked at it and saw those people encapsulated in that little frail piece of photo paper in a
way he had never looked at them before. Aunts, uncles and cousins. His wife and children. Faces that
carried memories and love in their smile lines and wrinkles. Faces dirty with play and chocolate,
unburdened by any thought that the next day would not hold as many joys and wonders as the previous.
The idea the country they lived in had was capable of such atrocities.
The memories were as real in this moment as the picture in his hand. He felt the thin fishing
line in his hand, watching his uncle wind it in the spool. Tasted the tart rhubarb on his tongue from his
grandmother’s cobbler. He felt his chin start to quiver and the fire blurred. He tried not to think of
them, of all of them. Where had they gone? What were they’re thoughts and feelings in what might
have been their last moments? Why was it only him now, alone? He felt like a leaf that fell and had
been washed away downstream, away from the tree. Even if the tree had burned at least those leaves
had not been alone when they caught fire, as he was.
He saw the picture move in his trembling clutch. Wherever they were he had to believe that
they were ok somehow, that God had them. He took a deep breath. This was faith, this was trust. His
fingers opened and he watched the picture flutter down into the flames. The edges curled and the faces
bubbled into deformity with the heat. He took a deep breath as the picture shriveled in on itself and
was consumed by the fire. He needed to be free. Free of the worries and fears he held inside his heart
for them, that went with him every step he took in this new and unforgiving world.
The sudden tone of the piano keys striking under the hands of Father Elias should have startled
him, but it didn’t. It was as if he had expected it, had known this was what would happen next. Just as
he knew the song being played before the first tones were even released. He closed his eyes and the
tears that came were joy mixed with sorrow as he whispered, “How can I keep from singing?”
They learned, after several encounters with thieves, that sometimes the road less taken was the
road that made all the difference when it came to safety. Walking through a field of grass they stopped
at the sound of running water. Fresh water was becoming scarce as days stretched into weeks since the
catastrophe that had ripped their country apart. Two warring factions had flexed their muscles and the
result was a demolished nation, a government that had vanished into the ash choked wind and the
pervasive feeling of distrust that floated around every man, woman and child. People Thomas might
have smiled at in the check out line or waved into traffic were now flesh covered bombs that could
either go off or stay pinned. He had no idea. The only idea he did hold with some certainty, was that if
he walked long enough and far enough he would someday find his family.
Father Elias put down his backpack with a fluid movement and pulled out two soft water skins.
Thomas pulled off his backpack with much less grace, the cool breeze running along the back of his shirt
where sweat had made it stick to his skin topped with a layer of dirt. He pulled out his own water skin
and untied the plastic water jugs hanging from his belt.
“I’ll get the fire going on that flat rock over there,” Father Elias said pointing. “There must be a
creek or river just beyond.” He handed Thomas his skins and the one jug he also had. Thomas made off
stiffly for the sound of water. He thought about how nice it would be to take off his shoes and wade a
bit, the sensation of cold water on his aching feet. Awkwardly crawling over several large stones with
his water jugs he finally got to a flat river bank of smaller rocks. The creek, as it appeared too small to
be classified as a river, burbled with a lulling sound. Trees lined both side of the creek and the breeze
ruffled their leaves. Thomas threw down the jugs and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the peace of
the area fill him with memories of happier times. Letting the moment pass he opened his eyes and
sighing reached down and grabbed one of the jugs to fill. He crouched down by the edge of the water,
tipped the jug on its side and watched it slowly start to fill. His eyes became unfocused for a few
seconds as he stared at the way the water slowly entered and filled the jug. Finished with one he
reached for another and repeated the process.
Gazing again at the jug and the water he suddenly saw the water start to sparkle. His first
thought was that sunlight must have broken through the clouds and trees and was reflecting brightly off
of the water, but looking up into the sky all he saw were thick grey clouds. Confused for a moment he
moved his eyes back down to watch the water in the jug and froze. There, standing no more than
twelve feet in front of him was a lady.
She was standing in the water wearing a long blue dress of brilliant hue and a shawl of pearl and
lace that covered her head and extended down to her legs. The water did not swirl or bifurcate around
her, but instead continued to flow uninterrupted, creating no wet marks on her clothing. Thomas,
accustomed now to the reflex of running or fighting whenever he encountered a surprise, found he was
transfixed. He felt no fear. For the first time in weeks he was next to a person other than Father Elias
and felt no fear.
She smiled at Thomas. The smile was so genuine, so pure and loving that Thomas felt tears
spring to his eyes. His heart felt warm and peaceful. Sensations he thought had been burned away
along with his life were flooding his body. Then she spoke. Thomas could hear her words, but was
unsure if her lips were actually moving. It was like she was speaking on an emotional level to him, into
his heart and soul, not just into the intellect of his mind. She told him of her immaculate heart, of Jesus
her most beloved son, of God’s desire to pour out his mercy onto the world. She told him of choices, of
human choices, that had lead to this moment in time, so small for God, so immense for humanity. Filling
his heart he felt the weight and emotion of every word that followed.
“You, my child. You will have a choice, as I had a choice. You can choose to continue to walk
your path and like you have known in your heart, you will one day find those you lost. You will find your
family and be reunited again.” Nearly bursting with emotion he fell to his knees, letting the water jug go
to float away down the river, gently bumping against rocks as it moved.
“Your lives will not be easy. You will live in hiding and it will be difficult, but you will be with
them, and you will survive this life.” His lips trembled but he could not utter a word or sound. She
smiled at him again and held out her hand. “Or you can choose to go my way, saying yes to me as I said
yes to God with all of my heart, mind and soul. This way will lead to your death my child. You will never
see your family again, but they will be saved spiritually, and through them will come the triumph of the
Immaculate Heart.”
She looked at him tenderly, her smile filling his whole world, her words etching their way across
his heart in a way he knew he would never forget. As suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. He
felt like he had been placed into a black and white movie. Her brilliance had been so that the world left
behind now looked grey and muted. He stayed where he was for several minutes, cold water running
over his legs and feet as he knelt there in the creek bed.
He replayed her words over, and over, and over. Choices. Choices made that brought the world
to this point. Evil choices, selfish choices. And then there was Mary’s choice that changed everything.
Her one, completely selfless choice to say yes with complete faith in God. She is asking me. Me? Why
me? Thomas thought. He thought of his family. The pull to see them was so strong, so physically
powerful. To touch their hands and hold them. He had spent so many long days and dragging nights
holding onto the tangible joy that moment would bring him. He could do that, he could see them and
hold them again. All he had to do was continue to walk this path, to continue on the way he wanted to
go and at the end they would be waiting for him like the ultimate prize. He bit down on his lip hard.
What had she said though? The other choice would mean his death, but his family would live. Not just
living in the flesh of this world. They would live spiritually, with Jesus and Mary forever. Eternity would
be their point of reunion, not the grubby underground of an apocalyptic nation. But most importantly,
this would bring about the triumph of her Immaculate Heart. Healing, hope, a way for life to continue in
a way no one could every dream possible.
Father Elias found him there, kneeling in the creek.
“Thomas, what are you doing?” he said with a mixture of humor and concern.
Thomas looked up, for a moment forgetting where he was and what he had been doing in the
world of right now. He stood up stiffly and gave him a half grin.
“Getting water, what does it look like?”
Father Elias let out a light chuckle and walked toward the creek to help fill up the rest of the
water jugs.
“I was thinking, though,” Thomas said as he crouched down again next to Father Elias. “Maybe
we should start trying to walk along the roads again…”
The group was a ragtag one, a mix of people who three months ago barely knew society had this
many variations. Father Elias had found them while hunting for food. They were tucked in a back room
of a massive warehouse, the old kind that had doors that lead to added room after added room without
any real flow. Father Elias was hunting squirrels and had seen a human form dart through a crack in a
concrete wall. He had shimmied his way through the crack and there they were, camped in with a few
possessions of great worth: an old oil lamp, a hatchet, a working two way radio and a set of cast iron
skillets. They welcomed Thomas and Father Elias in without question, which surprised Thomas given
how valuable their hiding place was. We were all welcomed in without question, one of the young
women said, a twenty something with faded blond highlights and a tattoo of a monkey on her arm.
“It’s ok, we can stop here for a while,” Thomas told Father Elias when they were alone. Father
Mathias nodded and Thomas could see how much he needed this, to stop somewhere safe and rest.
That, and since his vision, Thomas had made his decision. He would follow the path of Our Lady.
The morning sun was brilliant as he went out to gather sticks for a fire for the group. They took
turns, one leaving the warehouse while another two watched the entrance. They started doing this
after explosions had been heard going off near enough to cause the ground to vibrate. Several of the
young people in the group had been attending rallies at a city just over a mile away, or what used to be
a city. They were trying to get others to join in a movement to initiate a stand down. Someone, they
articulated, had to make the first move toward peace. Thomas agreed with their stance and he had
joined them a few times. The last time a small argument turned into a fist fight and Thomas decided it
was time to go. Walking back the mile to the warehouse the sound and reverberation of an explosive
going off close by knocked him to his feet.
When the rest of the group returned several had cuts and abrasions. “We were attacked on the
way out,” one said as he put a cloth to a cut over his eye. “I don’t know how they got the materials to
make explosives, but I don’t like the way this is going.” Several others agreed and they decided to stay
out of the way for a few days to let things calm down. As Thomas picked up sticks he heard a
commotion near him and saw several of the people coming out of the crack in the wall of the
warehouse.
“What is going on?” He asked as they began going in the direction of the town. One of them
pulled him aside.
“The leader of the SD movement is agreeing to speak with one of the local RM leaders in the
football stadium. Most of us want to go and support him.” Thomas opened his mouth to speak but the
young man put his hand on his shoulder. “We know, could be dangerous.” He flashed a smile. “But we
need to feel like we are at least trying to make things better.”
He trudged along with the group. He didn’t want to go, but Father Elias was with them and he
did not like the idea of Father Elias being there without a wing man. The stadium was surprisingly quite
full which instantly made Thomas nervous. He did not think there had been this many people still in this
city, let alone this many people willing to come out in the open. He found a seat at the end of a row by
an exit, eager to have an escape route if needed. The build up to the talk was long and he was already
weary of the whole experience by the time the two people started talking with a man walking back and
forth between them doing his best to be a mediator. The crowd was definitely divided and the energy
was heated. He decided he needed to get some air. Getting up he started moving to the steps when his
foot caught on something bulky. He broke his fall on the railing and looked at what had tripped him.
There he saw coat partially draped over a metallic box with red numbering. He knelt down, not sure he
was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He moved the coat, realizing the coat had been completely
concealing the box before he tripped and disturbed the way it was laying. And that’s when he realized
the box was a bomb.
He froze. His hand stopped inches away from it. He had wondered, many times since his vision
of Our Lady, when his choice would come and if he would have the spiritual strength to make the choice
he knew he needed to make. Now, with his hands poised over this box of destruction, he felt calm, at
peace. He felt serene as he picked it up and walked without haste so as not to cause alarm down the
steps and out the exit. He knew just the place to go. A sudden urging for haste consumed him and he
felt Mary running beside him as he sprinted toward the blown out area that had once been a golf
course. It was away from the stadium, away from buildings and projectiles. Away from all of those
people. He ran with a speed he had never known until suddenly he felt he could stop. Throwing the
bomb down on the ground he saw the red light of the timer counting. He had not wanted to look at it
while he ran but now it was staring up at him, daring him to leave in time. 7 seconds.
He fell to his knees and in a clear voice he prayed, “Rejoice, oh Virgin Mother. Chris is raised
from the dead.”
Closing his eyes he pictured the last day before the war. His son and daughter running in the
yard with open jars, fireflies dancing around them, his wife smiling over at him. The last perfect day.
Easter Mass had been absolutely beautiful. The church, still smelling of fresh paint, had glowed
with sunlight through the new stain glass windows. Those receiving communion often did so with tears
of joy in their eyes and Father Elias felt invigorated. Removing his vestments he heard a knock on the
sacristy door.
“Enter,” he said with good cheer. The Deacon opened the door to reveal a familiar face standing
next to him. Father Elias had seen that face and heard his voice many times. He was leading the nation
now, but more importantly, he was bringing about the reign of Christ.
“Father Elias, this man would like to speak to you if you have some time?”
Father Elias nodded and moved to shake the man’s hand. “Of course, you are well known to
me, sir, though I am sure I am less known to you. Let us sit while we chat.”
The two men sat next to each other in the front pew, the younger man letting his eyes wander
around the church, to its crucifix hanging above the altar, then settling on the niche holding the
tabernacle. His eyes lingered there in silence for several reverent moments before he turned his
attention back to Father Elias.
“You may say I don’t know you Father, but indeed I do know you, or at least have known of you
for many years. You helped my father walk a path a long time ago. This nation knows my father as a
man whose selfless act saved hundreds and prevented the beginning of peace talks from being
destroyed. But you knew him as your friend Thomas.”
Father Elias’s blue eyes grew misty as he smiled with fondness. “You have done me a great
honor by coming to Mass today there is so much we can talk about regarding your father. But for now,
let us talk about Jesus Christ who has risen to so that we may all live again.” The young man looked
around the church again and smiled. “Yes. Living through him on this first perfect day.”