I almost see the miracles of the Saints

Except for a brief period - perhaps between the ages of 5 and 13, when I wanted to dig up dinosaur bones or be a marine biologist - all I've ever wanted to be is a doctor. I've thought of other thing, including perhaps a counseling psych Ph.D, but it's always only been medicine. I've never thought of being a career writer, but I love the escapist part of reading so much, that, over the years, I've tried my hand at writing. I have all of these ideas in my head, but right now I need to push them aside and focus on the upcoming storm of tests. That being the case, I thought it might help to symbolically and literally (briefly) set those things aside - by posting a brief glimpse here. This is an excerpt from a book I started once and will probably never finish. Just so you know, "Casimiro Milagros De Los Santos" roughly translates to "I almost see the miracles of the Saints". For those of you familiar with Harlingen, I think you'll see the similarities.

The Padre's chapter

Padre Dagoberto Casimiro Milagros de los Santos slipped behind the wheel of his maroon 1990 Ford Taurus. A look of heavenly peace graced his strong features as he rested his weathered hands on the dash and leaned his head back, thankful for a blessed few moments of solitude. It was a beautiful, bright afternoon –a cool, crisp breeze lazily rolled stray clouds across the sky like eiderdown scattered on cerulean glass. The passenger side door opened, and the Padre’s peaceful countenance fled as quickly and unceremoniously as a crow dodging a child’s stone.

“Good afternoon, father Dagoberto! My, but this is a blessed day!” Father Brian McFadden had that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed fervor of personality normally seen in caffeine addicts. The padre glanced over at him, thinking instead, of a yipping wire-haired terrier. It wasn’t a bad comparison – father Brian’s unruly red hair stuck out at every improbable angle.

“Hello, Father Brian.” The padre cranked the engine and took a quick glance at the fuel gauge. So much for peace and quiet. He eased the Taurus out of the yard of St. Angelo – one of the many Catholic parishes in Camino. He had parked on the grass, preferring the shade of one of the few oak trees to the too-small parking lot.

“I’ve got everything written down right here, father. First, we should go and see how Mrs….del Campo is doing, and then on to…hrmm….Mrs. Rangel…oh, and we’ll be back in plenty of time for catechism class!” The padre responded by merely fumbling for a cassette and popping it into the deck. He pressed play, smiling at the first few notes of the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s 40 Days. He’d always thought that the opening piano solo could have fit very well in the most solemn of masses, and he relaxed a bit.

“Excuse me father, but do you happen to have any…err…Gregorian chants? I feel like…..I mean…..” Father Brian had a way of appearing to be unsure of what he was about to say so that it would appear to soften his disagreement. “If we’re… going out doing the Lord’s work and praying for the sick….shouldn’t we attune our hearts to His will and….not…..divert our minds with….secular music?”

The padre rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. Father Brian had only been here a week and already thought he knew how to run things.

“There aren’t any words – how do you know this song isn’t glorifying our Lord?” His voice was deep with the thick Mexican accent of one who’d learned English later in life.

“It doesn’t sound sacred……it doesn’t feel holy.” Father Brian shrugged. “And you know where the first played jazz music, right father Dagoberto? It was in the brothels….surely we -”

“If I remember my Old Testament correctly, father Brian,” The Padre had tossed in that condescending tone he’d found himself using more and more lately, “Rahab the harlot was one of Jesus’ ancestors. Now – I’m not at all condoning prostitution; I am merely saying that this….eh….” he paused, making vague motions with his hand. “ This ‘holier than thou’ attitude could alienate members of the parish. Remember who Jesus’ friends were.”

“But father -”

“However, if you are unable, father Brian, to see the beauty in the rhythm and cadence of this song – as one might find in Pachelbel’s Canon, or even How Great Thou Art – then I suggest you spend a bit more time with Him, asking Him to reveal to you His wonders.

“Father, I see, but -”

“I like this song” the Padre snapped, turning his head sharply. “You would do well to pay a bit more attention to Paul’s epistles and not be so quarrelsome.”

“Yes father.” The Padre cleared his throat as he saw father Brian deflate. He hadn’t wanted to snap, but this idealistic youngster, fresh from seminary, had come with his head so full of theoretical ideals that there would be no place at all for any practical learning. It was strange having him here at all – the padre had agreed to help Father Brian learn to lead a parish as a favor to a friendly priest in Boston. This, among other things, added to the Padre’s growing sense of unease.

“Please forgive me, father Brian – I didn’t mean to speak so sharply.” He stared straight ahead, clicked his blinker and turned left onto a main road.

“Forgiven”, father Brian said, somewhat sullenly. They were an odd pair, the Father and the Padre – as different as different could be. One was a gangly redhead from the better Boston neighborhoods, and the other had chosen to serve the Lord rather than the cartels in central Mexico. They both wore black, short-sleeved clergy shirts with the instantly recognizable clerical collars. Both had a strong commitment to the work of the Lord, but where they differed most was, perhaps, experience.

For Father Brian, the choice to become a man of the cloth had been one easy decision among many options; he’d grown up in Somerville, and came from a well-to-do Irish-Catholic family. Always active in the local diocese, his decision to become a priest had been praised as much as his older brother’s decision to become an ophthalmologist. The Padre, on the other hand, had grown up in the lush, historical Mexican city of Zacatecas. As the drug cartels became more and more powerful, he honored his mother’s wishes and relocated to Monterrey to become a priest, and, with the church’s help, soon immigrated.

Father Brian had seen people struggling to survive, but only in the soup kitchens, or the other outreach programs that his parish performed. However, to him, it was like looking through a window. He felt pity for them, and even felt that serving them was part of his duty – but he did not identify with them. At the end of the day, he would always go back to his nice warm bed in his wealthy parish – truly thankful that he was not in their place.

The Padre, however, thought he knew better. The poor in spirit – these were his people. He had seen the things that people would do to survive; he had been there. He felt that he had a full understanding of true human need, and what it made people do. Always, he’d thought that the search for the Lord could overcome the baser drives of human nature. If only he could get Father Brian to understand that it was not easy, and that the choice was at times very difficult – he would have done his work.

It was on these things that the Padre meditated as he drove through Camino. He pulled into a gas station on one of the two main roads that ran through town, idling the car for a moment. Unbuckling his belt, he turned in his seat.

“Father Brian, there’s something I’ve been wanting to share with you.

“Oh? What’s that?” Father Brian looked caught off guard, as if he was about to be the recipient of a particularly difficult confession.

“Where you come from……the choice to follow the Lord has probably been an easy one.”

“Yes…..it wasn’t so difficult.”

“Well here, things are a little different. The Lord calls to the hearts of the people, but so do drug money, prostitution, alcohol – most of these people don’t have much hope, and it’s difficult for them to put their faith in something they cannot see….perhaps more difficult than it is where life is a little easier. I feel sometimes that the Walk in a place such as this can be very difficult. Do you see what I mean?”

“I suppose…..” Father Brian stared thoughtfully through the windshield. “I suppose you’re asking me to be a bit more sensitive?”

“I’m glad you understand, father.” The Padre brightened, shut off the engine, and opened his door. “Would you mind pumping the gas?”

“Of course, of course.” Father Brian pushed open his door as the Padre closed his and walked briskly towards the small convenience store. Lonely crows cawed loudly from the power-lines above him as he reached for his wallet, shaking his head in dismay at the unforgiving prices.

A tub of ice filled to the brim with canned beer singles was the first thing he saw, followed by the colorful lotto display. He stepped up to the counter, handing the teller a $20.

“Put it all on pump four, please.”

“Pump four….ok…..” The teller punched in the keystrokes, but frowned at an error message. Must be new – thought the Padre. He glanced around at the blaring assault of colors, waiting patiently for his receipt. Hot dogs turned slowly on steel rollers in their glass heater to his left, and beside them steak and egg breakfast tacos grew stale in their thin foil. Brief movement caught his eye – he had a slightly-blurred view through the glass to the other side – right to the booze in the back. Three youngsters were greedily eyeing the inviting aluminum cans and bottles. They kept glancing around nervously, just oozing with adolescent shiftiness. A flash of recognition hit the padre, and he stepped away from the counter, the frustrated teller still trying to figure things out. The padre shoved his hands into his pockets and put on his best fake grin.

“Ahh – look who it is! Luis, Josue – I havent’ seen you boys in a while! And who’s your friend?” Like kleptomaniac deer caught in holy headlights, the boys froze, and quickly exchanged nervous glances. Luis stepped forward.

“Uhh…hi Padre…..this is…uh….our friend…Leo.” Leo didn’t move. So, the Padre stepped forward, extending a strong hand. Leo shook it reluctantly.

“Nice to meet you, Leo. I see you’ve made some good friends here – Luis and Josue usually come to mass every Sunday, and I know some mornings one can forget to set the alarm – Don’t worry about it.” He paused, glancing from one boy to the next, not releasing Leo’s hand. “I hope they’ll invite you when they come back – you’re welcome at St. Angelo.” The color draining from their faces, the boys continued their silent collusion. The Padre took a small step back, not wanting them to feel any more cornered. The well-practiced grin still plastered on his face, he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced up to the ceiling, as if deep in thought – or perhaps listening to the very words of God.

“Hmm. I’m glad the high-school is giving you boys so much freedom at lunch time. It is good to know you can be trusted with responsibility. I hope your classes go well for the rest of the day – It was nice seeing you boys again – and Leo it was nice meeting you.” The Padre pointed at him, nodded, and turned on his heels. The register had taken pity on the poor teller, and obediently spat out a receipt. The Padre thanked him and returned to the car, brushing a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Everything alright?” Father Brian asked, as he buckled his seat-belt.

“Oh yes, just fine. I ran into some boy from the parish, and I saw how they were doing.”

“Boys…but isn’t it a school day?” Confusion spread on the father’s face as he glanced behind them at the little convenience store. Beside him, the Padre cranked the engine to life.

‘Yes it is, and they were skipping school. I hope they will go back now – but that is in the hands of the Lord.”

“Should we……I mean…..should we give them a ride back?”

“No – they’ll be fine. They know where it is.” They were back on the main road, riding with the windows down, the velvet jazz of the Brubeck quartet still forcing its way through the crackly old speakers.

Padre Dagoberto shook his head. That right there - he thought to himself - that was the perfect example of what was going on with the parish. No one seemed to care anymore – it was like he was waiting for attendance to drop until it was just himself, Father Brian, and a few old ladies with their rosaries. It was frustrating, but it also saddened him. In his most honest moments – of which he sincerely repented immediately – he wondered if God cared about Camino anymore. It wasn’t as if this town was a modern day Gomorroah (maybe Tyre, or Sidon) – but it certainly felt like there had been a change over the past few years. He’d watched everything from weekly mass and catechism class attendance to baptisms decrease sharply, and he wondered if perhaps it was not God who did not care, but the people. His mind was filled with passages from Isaiah and Jeremiah, in which God expressed His sorrow at being forsaken by the Israelites. Stories about the rise in high-school dropouts and municipal corruption, increasing gang violence and larger-than-ever drug seizures made him wonder what had happened.

The ever-humble Padre certainly considered himself no prophet, but he felt that his words were just as useless, were just as ineffective in the ears of those they fell upon. Those boys back at the store? Sure, they looked sorry – but only because they’d been caught. If he hadn’t been there, not a single thought about skipping school or mass would convict their hardened little hearts.

Shaking his head once more, trying to clear his thoughts, the Padre reminded himself that he should not be so hard on them – he should love them. What good would it do to get frustrated? Of course he was frustrated….but he still had to be a shepherd, and be there for the faithful few. What kind of priest would he be if he let his annoyance at delinquent parishioners cloud his ministry to those who needed him? He certainly didn’t want to set a bad example for Father Brian – then his speech about Camino being a hard place to follow the Lord would seem to apply to himself also, and that was not something he wanted. What was there to do? It had been so pleasant, so full of life and dedication to the Word only a few years ago…

Guíame por el camino eterno– he silently repeated. “Lead me in the way everlasting.” He knew that he shouldn’t mope about not having the same spiritual gifts as Padre Jaime – but his felt so small by comparison. He shook his head once more. All his life there had been the assurance that the Lord had a definite plain for his life….and he was still sure that that was true. He just…thought that it would be something more important. The Walk was not supposed to be easy…but all he felt that he was accomplishing was slowing the rate at which Camino turned from the Cross. The Padre shrugged wordlessly, staring through the windshield, forgetting that he wasn’t alone. Father Brian had missed the tinge of bitterness in his voice earlier, but now he picked up on his frustrated, unconscious movements. He sat silently, wondering if he should interrupt the Padre’s thoughts, and then figured that it couldn’t hurt.

Father Brian opened his mouth to speak, but instead slipped a string of dark-wooden rosary beads from his pocket, held them reverently between his fingers, and bowed his head.

“Eternal Father, we humbly adore Thee, and thank Thee for this day, which Thou hast seen fit to give us.” Padre Dagoberto glanced over at him, the lines of frustration and weariness softening. He slowly reached up and turned down the radio. Father Brian continued.”

“O Loving and Most Gracious Lord, Thy humble servants Dagoberto and I do so deeply thank you for calling us to your work, and we know that You shall not give unto us more than we can bear. We ask Thee O Lord to give us the strength to persevere through difficulty, and the grace to be sensitive to the needs of your Lambs. O Gracious Mary, Immaculate mother of Jesus, I implore you to pray for me.” He slowly lifted his head, letting out a breath. A peaceful calm filled the little car, broken only by the gentle hum of the motor.

Padre Dagoberto was the first to speak. “I thank you Father Brian.”

“It’s alright. You looked upset.” Father Brian slipped the rosary back into his pocket.

“That I was. If I had but bowed my head and prayed – as you did – instead of indulging my memories of bitterness, I could have saved myself much annoyance.” They continued on, the radio turned back up as they talked about the weekly schedule. The chatted like new friends until they pulled into the neat gravel driveway of a small house, the porch covered in houseplants and colorful chairs.

“Shall we go see how Señora del Campo is feeling today?” The Padre asked, unbuckling his belt.

“Sounds like a plan father.” With that, they closed the doors of the little Ford Taurus and crunched up the driveway to visit and fellowship with one of the faithful parishioners.