Love is my Destiny Read online

  “Joe French, you are a lucky man ... In the coming of the new day, you will have passed from this world to face your Maker. May He welcome you into Paradise…Oh God… give peace and understanding to his wife and children.”

  Ironically, he envied Joe at that moment. Irene and his children and many other relatives and friends would mourn his departure. His loss would sadly give pain to many.

  “Your family will know a deep emptiness in their hearts and they will cry for you Joe French. You have been the love of their lives; a cherished husband and a respected father. Their tears will be long and lasting until the heart heals.”

  Peter looked sadly at the vast firmament above him and swallowed hard to stabilise his own emotions.

  “When my time comes to die, Joe French, there will be no tears; no heartache; no change to the day. Life will continue as though a drop of rain had fallen into the ocean, or been absorbed into the earth. I envy you, Joe French ... I envy you. I envy the love that you have created around you and the love that you have so graciously earned by your giving of yourself to your family, whereas my life has been one of selfishness and pride. I have told God what I want to be and do, and then I have gone ahead and done it. Will I ever know if I should have been a priest, avoiding all the temptations of this world, dodging any responsibility for fatherhood under the pretence of sanctity? Who am I to dare to think that I am different from any other man; that He should choose me as His priest?”

  Peter turned his head away and his cheek touched the damp grass by his side, but it left him unperturbed. He reflected upon his vocation and upon the days when he was very young and when he had first aspired to become a ‘Servant of God’… He smiled meekly in resignation of the memory that flashed before his eyes. He would have been about thirteen years of age and the Bishop had come to visit the school, no doubt with the idea in mind to recruit some young boys for the priesthood.

  “Which of you want to get married when you leave school?”

  The Bishop made his tactful enquiry to the response of thirty or so grubby hands in the air.

  “I do, my Lord, yes, I do,” the response was fairly unanimous and the Bishop smiled benignly as he continued his discourse, “Please God, you will have children of your own, but then, that’s a great responsibility, isn’t it. Having children is a very great responsibility, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes, my Lord, we want children of our own. We will take the responsibility”

  They shouted back at the Bishop, with a confidence far beyond their years.

  The Bishop smiled again but this time, more sadly than before. Then the burning question came out like a bolt of dreaded fear.

  “And would any of you want to serve God in the religious life … A priest or a Nun, perhaps?”

  This time there was no great show of hands, grubby or otherwise. The confidence had gone from the classroom and Peter remembered that moment as clear as the day it happened. His face burned with the thought of the reaction of that vital moment. He had wanted to put up his hand, but he was shy and afraid. Shy because he knew what the other children would have thought about his high aspirations, so lofty and supposedly far above his station, and afraid that he was not good enough.

  “Not even one?” enquired the disappointed Bishop and slowly Peter had raised his hand to the accompaniment of giggling and sniggering classmates. He had expected this reaction and there was no surprise as the Bishop looked tenderly at him.

  “You, little boy ... do you want to be a priest?”

  Peter lowered his head and wished he had been somewhere else at that precise moment.

  “Yes, my Lord I want to become a priest,” he had answered and he remembered it well as the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to become a priest at all costs, but he was afraid of the consequences and the sniggering became louder, some even laughed aloud… Of course, it was to be expected. Who did Peter Flavio Spinelli think he was?

  “Come and see me after Benediction, will you, please?” said the Bishop as he came closer to Peter and peered into his small frightened face.

  “What is your name?”

  Peter stuttered.

  “P, P, Peter Spinelli, my Lord. Peter Flavio Spinelli.”

  ***

  Peter lay on the grass smiling. The memory was as fresh as it had ever been.

  “God bless you, Peter Flavio Spinelli. You’ll make a good priest, I‘m sure” said the Bishop, but the boys ragged him in the playground and the girls blushed as they passed. There was a new excitement at the school for everyone to talk about.

  “Peter Spinelli wants to be a priest. Well, well, fancy that.”

  “Peter, the priest …what a laugh … Goody, goody Peter Spinelli … Peter Flavio Spinelli, if you please ...Will you bless me, Father Peter ... and where did you get the Flavio, mate?”

  Peter lay still in the damp grass, aware that he should not be there.

  His face was troubled as he recalled the remarks of the other children, but it was the one memory of his best friend, John Logan that brought out the reddest blush of all to his cheek. The grass beside him could have sizzled at the thought. John Logan was the only one who believed that he had a vocation, but his defence was anything but complimentary.

  Peter scanned the moon with sadness and his deep blue eyes shone with innocent excitement as he remembered that defence, in embarrassing vivid detail.

  “He’s not like the rest of us. You don’t catch him playing with himself in the showers.” John Logan shouted out for all to hear. He was forthright if lacking intact and Peter closed his eyes as he sighed and shuddered in the night air.

  “What a tremendous virtue,” he moaned aloud,” What admirable inhuman virtue ... I must have been a right pain in the arse,” he groaned as he rolled over onto his stomach and cupped his face in his hands. “Oh God help me to understand myself, more than anything else. How can I help others if I lack understanding of my own worth … Don’t allow me to be confused with false ideas about myself. How can I love when I know nothing about living? Why do I feel so much love and yet I know I should never share it with anyone, other than you? I am lonely, Lord, yet I seek no other company than yours. My soul is meant for you and it will not rest until it finds you. Oh God, I am afraid. I am in fear and I do not know why.”

  A nightingale sang in tune with the first lark of the morn as dawn broke through the skies to transform the earth again into a fresh new day. The grass was moist with dew and Peter realised that he had lain in it for longer than he had been aware. A shiver of foreboding ran down his spine as he listened to a faraway piper playing somewhere in the distant hills and as he rose up, he could hear a familiar sound coming from the trees behind him. He strained to listen to the unexpected and unusual lyrics coming to him so clearly and for a moment he had fears that he was being visited by the supernatural, so ethereal was the sound.

  ‘Oh! Web of grace, entangling love,

  Why should I strive to free,

  How can I stay this torrent strong?

  This LOVE that dwells in me…

  But Peter recognised the voice and did not want to disturb. His eyes softened as he continued to listen to the conclusion

  ‘This LOVE that dwells in me…

  This LOVE that dwells in me…

  He glanced at his watch and shook it to make sure it told him the correct time, as it had failed him on occasions before, but the time was 5.50 am. Why on earth was Fern singing in a field at such an unearthly hour, he thought, as he crouched down and peeped through the long grass to observe this ‘morning lark’, resolved not to interrupt him but his intentions were soon disturbed as Jonty came rushing at him, barking fiercely and Fern stopped singing.

  “Who’s there?” he called anxiously. “Down boy, down.” The dog returned to Fern’s side as Peter stood up, embarrassed that he had b
een observed seemingly spying on the boy and his dog.

  “It’s only me, Fern,” he stammered, “I’m sorry if I have disturbed you.”

  Fern narrowed his eyes.

  “Father… Father Peter, what are you doing here so early in the morning?”

  Peter removed some strands of grass from his sleeve.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” he grinned impishly as he spoke. Fern stroked Jonty lovingly and the dog responded, wagging its tail stump vigorously.

  “Yes, I suppose it does look rather silly of me, but I can’t practice properly when there are people about. I come here every morning about this time.”

  Peter nodded towards Jonty.

  “With that ferocious beast to guard you, no doubt,” he joked and giggled as Jonty snarled showing his fanged teeth. His jaws fell loose and his white teeth flashed angrily in the light of dawn.

  “He’s all right, Father. He is very gently really. He would never hurt you. He’s Tom Mahon’s dog, but I love him and regard him as my own. We are great friends, aren’t we, Jonty?”

  Fern spluttered out his apology for the presence of Jonty incoherently and the dog fidgeted and stood on his hind legs to paw his young master with affection, but as he strained hard to kiss Fern’s face, the boy laughed and pushed him away.

  Peter felt he was due an explanation and described how he had stopped on his way home after his visit to Joe French.

  “I don’t think I know him very well, Father.”

  “Well, I’ve only met him a few times myself since I’ve been here, but his wife and family come regularly to Mass.” Peter explained and Fern nodded his acceptance of the situation.

  “Are you going home now, Father?”

  Peter rubbed his eyes.

  “Yes, I’ve roughed it enough for one night,” he joked and turned away from the boy.

  “Good-bye Fern.”

  He walked away a few paces and then turned around again.

  “You have a beautiful voice. It is a delight to listen to you.” He said and Fern smiled his appreciation.

  “Can I walk with you, Father, or would you rather be alone?” Fern asked quietly and Peter held out his hand towards ‘the voice’ and the boy ran happily to join him. They walked together slowly, whilst Jonty ran on ahead enjoying the mad capers of his breed.

  “He’s happy,” said Peter as the dog jumped into the air and leaped over a fallen tree, and the two men walked for a long time in silence before Peter stopped and turned to Fern. He drew in his breath and closed his eyes.

  “How beautiful it is here. I love Scotland. I would never ever want to leave this place,” he said and his voice was sad, but Fern laughed.

  “Nor I, Father,” he said, “and besides, with my accent I would hardly be understood anywhere else.”

  They laughed together but Peter was sad within himself

  “It’s strange, don’t you think, Fern. People are born wherever God so wills and yet they grow to love the country of their origin as though they had made their own choice,” he said and Fern reflected on this newfound philosophy that he was hearing.

  “Yes, I believe this is so, because I am fascinated by the folk-lore of Scotland and I love the hills and the mountains. I find the lyrics and even the melody of the old Scottish ballads describe so much of what I feel inside,” he said and Peter understood.

  “You should be wandering around in the kilt, young man,” he joked.

  “I only wear it for functions like concerts and things …”

  Peter looked at Fern with pleasure in his eyes.

  “What is your tartan? Do you have a Clan, Mr. Zambrano?” Peter giggled in amusement of his own remark.

  “Yes, I use my mother’s Clan Tartan. She was a Thompson,” he replied before he returned to his feeling of pleasure from the ballads he sang.

  “I mean …I love the songs. They are truly love songs, don’t you think, Peter?”

  Peter nodded and smiled as he thought of Anna Thompson. It sounded so very different from Zambrano and he wondered how differently she lived with her Spanish husband.

  “The words are often so beautiful,” Fern went on as he gazed up into the sky and began to sing again.

  ‘If she should fall to earth from high; sway in the air and should she prick her eye on thorn, or bruise her breast on brittle corn, Wee birdie, blind to meet the dawn, then LOVE has looked away.

  Peter listened intrigued with pure delight and nodded in rhythm as Fern walked on ahead to catch up with Jonty, but Peter interrupted the play.

  “Sing some more, Fern, please. Don’t stop.” The boy smiled and raised his voice again as if he sang to the hills before him.

  ‘How could she fail to soar beyond the gates of heaven?

  To leave this earth in happy flight or fail to kiss the moon, Goodnight, if God should bring her to His light, then LOVE has looked her way ...

  Peter sighed with contentment. He was happy and his sadness had left him ... He did not want to go home. Life was unreal, but he loved it, as it was a serious business being a priest and here was an area in his life where he could dream and lose himself in unreality. He looked at Fern and the boy flushed with pride. His innocent eyes were sensual in a way that Peter had never noticed before, but he did not want to turn away.

  “You are very young to be singing such deep and emotional love songs.

  Is there a love somewhere in your young life that you haven’t told me about?” he asked and Fern looked shyly towards the earth but did not speak for some time.

  “No, Peter, I don’t really understand about love. I just know the feeling.”

  “Love” Peter repeated, “Love…who understands it in its entirety?”

  The priest pushed his way through a brier as he continued to speak and as he walked, he too gazed at the sky as though, up there in the abyss somewhere he would find his answer.

  “Love is without contradiction ... the dove will not fly backwards nor will the river flow upstream,” he said as he smiled, “I’m sorry Fern …I’m sounding like an old poet, aren’t I?”

  Fern stood still to look with admiration at his friend.

  “Peter, Father, I like the way you talk. I understand, really I do.

  Please tell me more,” he called out excitedly, but Peter looked away as if embarrassed by his humble interpretation of so great a mystery and the apparent hero worship and adulation that Fern was showing.

  “There is very little more I can say, Fern. The greatest loves of this world have rarely been captured in words or verse because love is such an overwhelming power, transient though it may be sometimes. It seems to be a host of contradictions and yet it is total unadulterated

  TRUTH.” Peter stared ahead as he continued to speak, but it was as if some inner voice compelled him.

  “The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green and the saffron amethyst is a folly,” he said in a solemn tone and Fern stopped walking again, closing his eyes as if to hold his breath.

  “Peter, what you have just said is TOTALLY BEAUTIFUL. You should write it down and let others share the joy of your mind.”

  Peter laughed aloud and his echo came back to him.

  “I don’t know what I said, Fern ...I told you I’m a silly old poet.

  The morning air of the mountains is full of romance. I should wear an amethyst ... it is supposed to prevent intoxication. Take no notice of me. I’m a silly old priest.”

  Fern moved closer towards him.

  “You are not silly, nor are you old ... but there is one thing that I cannot understand and I would like to ask you about it, that is if you don’t consider me impertinent.”

  “Ask away,” cried Peter, having felt that they had both reached the stage of vulnerability. “I will answer if I can…” and Fern s
tared anxiously at the trees as he sought to find the words he wanted.

  “Why did you become a priest?” he asked abruptly ... almost impudently. .”Why, when you feel so much love; when you are able to talk about love the way you do?” he enquired, but Peter hesitated. He could have offered Fern the excuse used by his best friend at school, but he respected this young boy. He did not want to say anything frivolous to him; anything that would affect the beauty of the friendship that he knew was already being cultivated. He knew that Fern was young and that many would not readily understand the training of the priest, but he hoped Fern would understand, for all his tender years as his answer came slowly and deliberately.

  “God is love. He is the Author of Love. He is the Pursuer of my soul.”

  Fern loved the voice he was hearing. He loved the mind of his companion of the hills, but he was shy and very emotional.

  “Do you ever feel the need of human love, Peter?” he asked, but the priest did not answer so resolutely on this occasion.

  “As long as we have a body we will all need love and the comforts of being near to someone special, but the priestly vocation singles a man out to love only God and Him alone, to the disqualification of any other.”