Love is my Destiny Read online

  Fern walked on farther in the meditation of what he had just heard.

  “I admire you very much Father Spinelli ... I envy your priesthood. I envy your strength. God must be very pleased with you.”

  Peter smiled and sighed aloud.

  “He was pleased with His only son, Jesus Christ, yet He allowed Him to be crucified. I cannot expect to live in a bed of roses, can I?” he went on and Fern gazed at him for a long time before he lowered his eyes and ran his tongue across his lower lip.

  “Father,I envy your God,” he said, and his voice was charged with emotion as Peter stared back at his young friend in total amazement that he would have such a mature thought, but Fern continued with his thoughts ... How could he utter the words or thoughts that were with him; the feelings that had tormented him since he had met this new and special friend. How could he even believe that he could feel the way he did? How can you tell a priest that you wanted to be with him and be his friend? How could you tell that to a priest?

  Chapter Nine

  PETER returned to the Presbytery and prepared to say morning Mass, but as he approached the High Altar followed by his two little acolytes, he reflected again over the events of the night before.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei ... Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutum meum,”

  He translated his verse immediately as he thought of Fern. “I will go unto the altar of God... to the God who giveth joy to my youth.” His heart was light and happy with the memory of his young friend and his distractions during the Mass were many but Peter was glad that he had met Fern that dewy early morning. He wanted to believe that Fern was just another young man; one of the many youths who came to him for advice or to talk, but in his heart he knew that Fern was different and a strange fear gripped his heart ... Fern, it seemed was part of his eternal destiny and he could not understand his thoughts.

  ***

  Peter knelt alone in the church as he prepared for the confessional hour, where candles burned calmly and without flicker before the statue of the Virgin. The air was still. His lips moved quietly in the surroundings of the monastic silence as he turned the pages of his breviary in adoration of his Lord and in praise of a youthful voice that would not leave him. ‘Ave Maria’ ‘To fly unfettered, free to sing’ ... What confusion!

  What delight…Peter bit his lip and snap-closed the prayer book.

  “Oh God, do not let me be confounded by the world, but let me love You purely and sublimely as You deserve to be loved,” he pleaded before he opened the breviary again to continue his praises of the Divine and the church door banged behind him. Someone had come to confess. Peter remained kneeling for a few moments and then marked his place in the breviary before he closed it, tucking it deep into the pocket of his soutane as he rose from his knees without looking around and entered the confessional box. A little light flashed across a sign above the door. It read… FR. PETER SPINELLI and the young priest was ready to do combat with the devil. He took his purple stole from a small shelf, hung it round his neck, and waited by the latticed window, with its heavy wool curtain of privacy. There was a sound from the wall beside him and he heard the kneeler creak. Peter slid the window open and ascertained that the green veil was intact. The seal was set and he placed his head in his hands.

  “Bless me father, as I have sinned,” came the thin voice through the curtain and the priest listened carefully before he spoke his counsel.

  “You must try not to make a habit of this practice, do you understand?” Peter advised and waited for an answer “Yes, Father. I have tried but it is difficult,” …the reply came through clearly.

  “Is there no way that you can distance yourself from this temptation?”

  Peter asked again as his eyes showed concern for his unseen penitent.

  “Don’t think so, Father.”

  Peter persisted in his care.

  “Is there any reason why you can’t?”

  Peter waited for the reply with only the sound of silence in the airless cubicle where he sat, until eventually; the answer came through the curtain.

  “Yes, there is Father.”

  Peter fumbled with the frayed end of the stole; his heart filled with hope.

  “What reason is that?” he asked softly and again there was a long silence before the voice came back.

  “Because I like it, Father.”

  Peter raised his eyes to the crucifix above his head and administered the penance of reconciliation.

  “Go in peace and pray for me.”

  He spoke in total abandonment and resignation of the situation, as he studied the rough wood of the confessional wall.

  “Another of God’s logical children,” he concluded with a sigh as the kneeler creaked again on the other side of the curtain.

  “Bless me Father.”

  A pristine voice trilled the depth of her soul with pride.

  “I have no sins to confess, Father, but I have come to receive the grace of the Sacrament, please?”

  Peter stared at the rough wooded partition before him and paused before he spoke.

  “When we look in a mirror, we never truly see ourselves, only the image,” he advised humbly as he stared at his hands. “There is no way in this life that we will ever be able to see ourselves as we truly are. Try to see what God sees you are. It is difficult, but with prayer we can achieve it.”

  The woman interrupted sanctimoniously.

  “I keep telling people just that, Father. Now can I have the Sacramental grace, please?”

  Peter capitulated with a sad heart.

  “God bless you, and pray for me.”

  “Of course I will, father ... as I always do.”

  Peter blessed the lady without sin and she left the confessional with a renewed heart to pursue her life of sanctity.

  The kneeler creaked again, even heavier and the smell of cigarette smoke made Peter close his eyes. He put his stole across his nostrils and tried to breathe lightly.

  “Bless me father, I don’t know how to explain myself, Father. I mean, I don’t know the words, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me in your own words. Do not be afraid. I will understand.”

  The man coughed and his chest rattled while Peter pressed the stole tighter to his nose.

  “I’m doing, things, to my daughter, Father, and I can’t stop it.” The voice declared and Peter forgot the effects of the stole as he sat bolt upright. It would be in vain to ask, “What things” he thought as he rubbed his forehead lightly.

  “How old is your daughter?”

  Again ... a long silence before the kneeler creaked.

  “She’s, five ... an’ a bit, Father.”

  Peter removed the stole from his nostrils, but the nicotine stench persisted. The penitent coughed, and he replaced it again, but in his anxiety, the smell had lost its potency.

  “You must stop doing this immediately,” he said and his voice was steady and intent “It is a serious matter and you must know that. Your daughter could be mentally scarred for the rest of her life apart from the grave injustice you serve her by your actions. You gave her life, but you cannot abuse this gift that you have received from Almighty

  God.” Peter paused before he continued his injunction. “You also put your own soul in jeopardy, and possibly that of your daughter, do you realize that?” he said, knowing that he could have quoted the bible endlessly, without the slightest impression on his penitent and he waited for the man to speak again, but only an eerie silence prevailed.

  Peter continued. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

  “No Father. I’m too ashamed, but I can’t stop it.”

  Peter twisted his stole in his hand.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  The penitent paused…

&nb
sp; “For the past ...well, about two years father,” the voice came through the veil and Peter raised his eyes to heaven ... Mother of God, help me in this situation, he thought.

  “There are places, confidential places, where you can get advice and help, you know,” Peter recommended sympathetically, but the man sighed despairingly and the green veil moved with his foetid breath.

  “It took me a hell of a long time to come to you. How do you expect me to talk to someone else?” came the reply and the young priest was aware of his apparent inadequacy to offer any constructive advice to his penitent and it was obvious that the man did not want any. He tried another approach.

  “You must realise that what you are doing is a criminal offence and that you could be sent to prison,” he said.

  “But you can’t give me away, can you Father?” came the spontaneous reply and Peter could feel the blackmail in the voice from behind the curtain as he hesitated somewhat angrily, to his own disgust.

  “You know I can’t ... You know that as you are a Catholic and you have made your confession to me, but you must also know that I cannot give you absolution unless you are truly sorry for having offended God ... repentant of your sin, and resolved to try not to do it again. You may not be able to feel that you can keep this resolve, but at the moment of confession; at this particular moment in time you must make it your intention to do all in your power to stop whatever is keeping you from God.”

  The penitent breathed heavier and the curtain swayed more easily. The nicotine aroma got thicker and Peter coughed.

  “I don’t think I can stop it, Father. I’ve tried, honest I have and besides I know I’m going to do the same thing tomorrow, no matter how hard I try not to.”

  Peter heaved a sigh of impatience and knew he was not handling the matter as well as he should.

  “My friend, you could drop dead the moment you leave this confessional, if you are going to measure everything in time. Time is of no consequence to God. He is immortal. It is NOW when He expects you to resolve and then leave yourself to His mercy and care. He will take care of the situation, if only you ask Him. Trust in Him.”

  Peter felt quite exhausted as the man behind the curtain sighed again and murmured something in a low voice.

  “What did you say? I’m sorry, I did not hear you.”

  Peter strained to hear the man repeat what he had said, but to no avail. The confessional door slammed shut … and silence prevailed again, but before he could say a quick prayer for both the man and his daughter, the kneeler creaked again and cut short his urgent supplication.

  “Bless me Farrar ... Is it wrong. I mean is it a sin to touch a lassie, Farrar?”

  Peter brought his thoughts to the new situation. It was obviously a very young person who had come to make his confession.

  “You mean, I suppose, in a sexual way…”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, Farrar.”

  “It could lead to more serious temptation, couldn’t it?”

  The young voice hesitated.

  “I’ve only felt her tits, Farrar.”

  Peter smiled, contradicting the seriousness of his office.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Nearly fourteen Farrar…”

  There was another long silence.

  “You are very young and it is natural that you should have these curiosities about the opposite sex at your age, but you must be careful, for one day, please God, you will meet a girl that you will love, and she will love you. You may want to marry her and I am sure you will like to think that you are the only person who has touched her ... in the way that you are describing now. Do you think about that?”

  There was another long silence before the young penitent replied.

  “Cor! ... I don’t want to marry her, Farrar. I’ve only touched her ... things.”

  “Yes ... I know ... I know.”

  Peter realised the futility of his advice and he knew it would be inappropriate to ask the boy to ‘pray’, but a sudden idea flashed though his mind as he leaned across nearer to the green curtain and whispered.

  “Will you do something for me, please?”

  Peter paused for a moment ... and the young boy leaned nearer on his side of the curtain, whispering back with the respect of the confidence that was being shown to him.

  “Yes Farrar…”

  “When you leave this confessional box, will you please kneel before the Blessed Sacrament and say, just one ‘Hail Mary’ for my private intention?”

  “Of course, I will, Farrar.”

  “Go in peace then and God be with you.”

  Peter’s intention was that the Queen of Heaven would take care of the fourteen year old more adequately that he had been able to do ... and the kneeler creaked as another penitent came into the confessional box.

  “I can’t take any more of it Father. If he hits me once more ... just once more, I’m leaving him.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “No Father. He uses things …”

  I asked for that one, thought Peter.

  “Are you happy ... I mean, apart from the beatings?”

  Peter knew what he meant, and hoped she did. The girl hesitated.

  “I suppose I am, father,” she answered hesitantly and Peter found his cue.

  “Do you love him?”

  She hesitated again.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Would you be able to get him to come and see me…I mean, both of you, together?”

  “I might be able to do that, Father.”

  “Do try. Meanwhile, let us pray for each other. God be with you.”

  The kneeler didn’t creak anymore and Peter knew that his daily combat had come to an end as he came out from the confessional and knelt down at the High Altar. A young boy was kneeling a few feet away from him and he looked at the priest, just as Peter was about to open his breviary. Peter smiled andthe boy winked.

  “I’ve done it for ye, Farrar. I’ve told God to gie ye what yer wantin’,” he called out proudly and Peter’s mouth fell open as the young lad left the church with confirmed complacency, striding down the aisle with renewed faith in his new found power of prayer.

  Peter winked at the High Altar…

  “That was a quick one, Lord,” he murmured and continued to say his prayers.

  “Out of the mouths of babes and suckling cometh forth great wisdom . .

  Chapter Ten

  PETER BURIED JOE FRENCH in the cemetery on the hill on a cold and damp morning and as he blessed the coffin before it touched the bleak earth, he felt a strange emotion within himself, as though he had known Joe for a long, long time. As if Joseph French, a comparative stranger, was someone that he had known all of his life, for the silence of communication between them in the moments of their union was impregnated with a non-colloquial knowledge of each other’s existence.

  Peter marvelled at his own feelings and strained to recapture a glimpse of the face of the man in the coffin before him. Why should he feel such an affinity with this man? He had only met him twice. Was Joe French asking something of him that he did not understand? Was he pleading for the wife and children he had left behind? Was he asking for an understanding of the life he had led, or was he reminding Father Peter Spinelli that his own life required a reckoning? ...

  Joe’s wife and children stood by in grief, unwillingly accepting the inevitable finale that death alone can bring.

  ‘Out of the depth I have cried to Thee, O’ Lord; Lord hear my voice.

  Let Thine ears be attentive to my supplication.’

  The coffin was lowered into the ground and the funeral assembly wound its way wearily home. Peter unclasped the heavy cope that hung from his shoulders and slung it across his arm as he climbed into the large f
uneral car that took him back to the Presbytery. He was pensive as he went into the chapel to pray and knelt for a long time in silence, looking intensely at his hands; Hands that were anointed to serve God in the sacred priesthood, but Peter felt alone and vulnerable ... restraining his natural impulse to cry in his solitude and confusion.

  “Oh God, what is happening to me. Have you deserted me? I am no longer able to pray as I used to,” he complained as he raised his eyes to the large crucifix that hung before him where the figure of Christ appeared naked and in pain and blood ran from the wounds that had been inflicted upon Him in His innocent body. He saw the thorns that pierced the head of Christ mercilessly and His mouth hung open where His chin almost touching his neck. The dead eyes rejected the sockets that held them there and strained to be released from His skull ... Peter looked on and wept.

  “Oh! God, let me always love you. Never let me be parted from you. In my folly, do not let me be misled or confused. In my logic, do not let me lose my identity, for I am a worm, and no man.”

  Through the mist of his tears he could see the pale face of the crucified Christ and he closed his eyes as he heard the words that burned into his mind. Words from his seminary days when life had meaning and days passed in the toil of love.

  “Don’t have a thought about what you should say, or how to phrase your love for Me. Simply be what I have made you and be patient in your state. My delight is to be with the children of men. Do not speak a word, JUST BREATHE, for to breathe is the greatest prayer you can offer Me … It is the living proof of My creation; the ultimate sign of my omnipotence. It is something you are able to do regardless of status, or lack of it, for I am the Author of Life and the outward sign of life is breath.”

  Peter opened his eyes in fear of what he might see and rubbed away the tears with his hands, but the Christ was still dead before him. There was no motion in the clay that the sculpture had used, and yet, he was afraid. In the language of silence, he was being instructed as he rose from his knees and crossed himself.

  “Why have you chosen me, my Lord? Why did I have to fall in love with you? Why do you pursue me through the years of my life when surely it is not good for man to be alone? Why, therefore, am I so lonely and afraid? If You do not sustain me, I will drown in my sorrow.”