Three Stories for Francis

Copyright © 2013 by Jerre Cline.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2013920505

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4931-2775-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4931-2774-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4931-2776-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 11/23/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

Orders@Xlibris.com

141288

Contents

THE PRESENT

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

TONGUES OF FIRE

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

MR. HERBERT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

With heartfelt thanks to family and friends who read one or more of these stories or listened to me tell them around our family table over the years. The advice, critiques, and encouragement of the following are especially appreciated: ABC: p Ageless Book Club of North Fort Myers members Cheryl Dunleavy, Crispin Melloh, Karen Meisel, Sheri Montgomery, Cindy Sumal, and Caren Simpson; Drs. Katherine and Robert Battisti; the late Fr. Eugene Henley, OFM, Conv.; Shawn McKelvie; the late Jim Mullican; Dick Rowe; Harvey and Kathleen Sorensen; Judith Stoffel; and my wife, Alexandra.

Particular thanks to Elizabeth Hutson, the artist whose paper cutting images depict the tales of this trilogy, and to Crispin Ewen, who assisted long-distance.

THE PRESENT

By Jerre Cline

Chapter I

I t was a Tuesday afternoon in mid-August when the bishop called me in to give me the news.

Time to pack your bags, Father, he began, a big, broad smile issuing across his face. I’m moving you to Our Lady of the Snows in Lieux.

Me, Your Excellency? But I’m not a mountain man.

I tried not to make it sound like a protest, but I’m sure it came through like one. The truth is, these mountain churches were reserved for priests born and bred in their home parishes. Everyone knew that. People who live in mountain communities form a closed society, and if you’re not at least a second generation native, you’re regarded as an outsider, and that makes ministering very difficult.

Sorry, Father, I have no one else, and Fr. Benedict, the present pastor, has been told by his doctor to seek a lower altitude. You’ll be replacing him.

And what of Fr. Benedict?

He’ll be replacing you here at the cathedral.

I took a deep breath.

Tell me about Lieux? I asked in almost a groan. I’ve never been there.

You’ll like it. Skiing’s good, and it’s a nice little town. It’s bigger than the villages that surround it, and it has most of the amenities: treated water, hospital, cinema, all that sort of thing, and Our Lady of the Snows is a fine old church.

And when shall I report? I said, getting to my feet. He had already imparted his message, and there was little more to be said.

Before the weekend, he said, rising from his leather chair and extending his hand. Fr. Benedict would like to introduce you to your new flock at the Sunday Masses, if possible. The meeting was over. I kissed his ring and left.

Alone, I headed for my room to fetch a jacket. I’d never been to Lieux, but I presumed it to be like the many other mountain towns in the Swiss hinterland. I had to shake my head in disbelief. I’d been sent to the boonies. I, Fr. Michael Moet, top of my class in the seminary, two years in Rome in graduate school, three years an assistant in the second largest parish in the diocese, and most recently assigned to the bishop’s home parish, and now suddenly, the outback. Not because I had done something wrong, but because I was the only one available.

I sought some self-administered therapy. I went for a long walk, and by the time I returned, I had a whole new slant on things. My transfer was a message from God, a message to slow down and to get to know the people. Enough of my rocket ship to the top of the hierarchy. It was time to settle down and do good work. Two hours before I’d been shocked by my appointment, and now I was pleased and looking forward to it. Just think, I counseled myself, 31, and already a pastor.

Chapter II

T he departure of my predecessor was abrupt, but not so abrupt that he didn’t have time to take me on a tour of the church and its premises. Our Lady of the Snows church was an old one, built in the 17th century after the religious wars, on the foundation of a much older church. It was in a state of disrepair that is not uncommon to 17th century Swiss churches. It was unheated, the roof leaked, and the stained glass in the windows looked to be in need of re-leading. Still, Fr. Benedict was proud of his church, and I made no comment concerning its condition in order to save his feelings.

One of the beauties of old churches is that there always are some mysteries and myths that go with them. Our Lady of the Snows was not to be outdone. In the sacristy, when Fr. Benedict was showing me the vestments, I met the first mystery. The chasubles were all laid out and beautifully folded in big drawers. Some were plain, some beautifully beaded, all beautifully preserved. When he opened the drawer that housed the rose vestments, those nearly unused chasubles that are worn only on Laetare and Gaudete Sundays of Lent and Advent, respectively, he withdrew a little leather pouch.

Ah, here is the final rite of passage, he grinned, handing me the pouch. My predecessor gave it to me when he turned over the reins, and now I give it to you.

Inside was an old fashioned iron key. With it was a note from a 17th century pastor:

June 25, 1688

This key was given to me when I became pastor of this church. I have never found a use for it, but I was advised by my predecessor that someday I might.

On faith, I would ask you to hold on to it and preserve it.

Fr. Charles Rousseau, Pastor

I smiled at Benedict, who was waiting to see my reaction.

And you have a clue as to what this key unlocks?

He shook his head no.

Well, a church without a mystery is not worth its salt, I said, returning the pouch to the drawer, all the while wondering if I would ever have reason to think on it again.

The other thing I discovered on that first tour was not in the church at all, but in Our Lady’s chapel. The chapel building seats about a hundred people, and is attached to the church by a long cloister, a walkway open to the air, but covered overhead to preserve pastors and processions from the elements. Its architecture, like the church, is a mix, part Gothic, part Renaissance, and is dominated by two large statues on opposite sides of the altar, the Archangel Michael on one and the Virgin Mary on the other. The Michael was magnificent, but the Mary statue was the ugliest I had ever seen.

These are a good omen, I told Fr. Benedict. They are my two patron saints. I looked away as if checking out the rest of the chapel, trying my best not to look again at the virgin’s flat, stony face.

The old priest obviously had a special fondness for the statue of Mary, for while I was talking, he reached out and patted its foot. During the course of our visit there, I was told about the history of the stained glass windows, where the keys were kept, et cetera. At one point, I momentarily lost my bearings and accidentally looked up to find myself face-to-face with Mary’s statue. Fr. Benedict took notice of my reaction, and turning, winked at her.

She’s not very pretty, I guess, but I like her, he said. The story I have been told is that the artist died before he was able to finish her face. Plague was everywhere at the time, and everyone was pretty well caught up in his or her own survival, so that it was 25 years before anyone ever bothered to bring up the matter of finishing her. But the plague had changed things. There were fewer people, and because of the deaths that had occurred, property and wealth had become centralized in a very few hands. Pastors tried, but it was a period of rebuilding, and after such a long time they found it was difficult to raise the funds to have the statue properly completed.

I’ve always had an interest in how artists work, so, as Fr. Benedict warbled on, I bobbed behind the altar, which was flanked on either side by its statues. Set obliquely, they silently drew the attention of the congregation to the crucifix above. The Michael was smooth marble, beautifully polished back and front. However the Mary was roughly carved. Not only that, her back was flawed. A rough grey stain as wide as a baguette ran from the back of her shoulder to the bottom of her robe, obviously embedded in the marble since it was formed eons ago.

It was an interesting tale. Still I did my best to ignore the statue.

And you keep this open all day, Father? I asked, referring to the chapel.

Yes, we have a retired member of the church who acts as sacristan. He opens it about 7 in the morning, and I close it up at about 8 in the evening, but there aren’t many customers. He looked up wistfully at his statue. I suppose people don’t understand her like I do.

No, I replied, I’m sure they don’t.

Chapter III

O n the following day, Father introduced me at the two Sunday masses, and that afternoon there was a farewell coffee or him. By noon the following day he was gone, and I took charge of the parish.

It was on the next day, a Tuesday, that I met up with my first problem. The Bourboneau girl and her fiancé, Tomas Marché, dropped by to greet their new priest, expecting to arrange their wedding.

Tomas and I are anxious to marry, the girl began, as soon as we had moved beyond introductions.

I’m sorry, but because I’m new I don’t know either of you, I said. Tell me first, is this your home parish?

Yes, of course the girl replied. Both of our families can claim Our Lady of the Snows as their home church for generations.

Well, that’s good. I only ask because although I have a very good memory for faces, I don’t recall seeing either of you in church on Sunday.

Oh, we don’t go to church here, Father, the young man volunteered.

No? Well, where do you go to church?

The two looked at each other.

Well, by and large, we don’t, the girl responded.

They were certainly up front about it, but already I could hear a bit of irritation come creeping into my voice.

Well, do you intend to start? To come regularly, I mean?

The young man grinned. He knew I had them on the spot, but wasn’t sure why. She, for her part, hesitated, but finally spoke.

I don’t think so, she replied. In fact I’ve never really thought about it. We really only come here when there is a need to celebrate.

The young man nodded his head in agreement, and I shook mine in disbelief.

Well, that’s not too bad, I said finally. Celebrations are at the heart of the Mass.

Is it a problem? Our church attendance, I mean? the girl asked. Generations of Bourboneaux have been married here, and I doubt anyone ever asked any of them this kind of question.

Now, if I may offer a general rule, I said, much like a pontiff, you can’t get married in the Church unless you practice your faith and you intend to bring up your children in the faith. Otherwise, there’s the town hall. They’ll be glad to marry you there, no questions asked.

At just that moment, fortunately or unfortunately, Madame Mettlebanc, the parish secretary, burst in to tell me that there was a problem at the back of the building.

It’s happened before but it was always a small problem. This time it is out of control, she blurted out.

I didn’t know what she was talking about until I reached the little restroom that was located just off the kitchen. Inside, a toilet was backing up, running and running. Aside from getting my shoes wet, it was one of the easiest problems I was ever to face in the parish. I simply turned off the water and asked Madame to call in a plumber. Five minutes later, however, when I returned to my study I faced a very different problem. The Bourboneau girl and her fiancé were gone. I was sorry and relieved at the same time.

The next day, I received a visit from the prospective bride’s father, Jean Bourboneau.

What’s this about not being willing to marry my daughter? he exploded, as soon as we were behind closed doors.

I didn’t say that, I responded. The two of them came to see me, and I simply told them the rules the Church asks me to live by.

You must be a dolt, the father replied angrily, spinning on his left foot and moving about the room like a caged animal. How dare you? he said, turning back to me. You’ve been here three days, and my family has been part of this church for at least 150 years. He paused, and seeing that I hadn’t given any ground, launched into me again.

Are you blind? Couldn’t you tell she’s pregnant? This is still a highly Catholic area, and church is the only respectable way out for them. Lieux is a small town. My family is prominent, and if she doesn’t get married soon, and in church, she’ll be the talk of the town.

I see, I responded, trying my best not to smile or become bewildered by his onslaught. Well, that does make a difference. In the back of my mind a justification for marrying the couple began to form. I might possibly agree to the ceremony so as to refrain from undermining the rest of the family’s faith and relationship to the Church.

Forgive me, for I’m new, I said, knowing I was on thin ice, but unable to resist the temptation to ask. I know you claim Our Lady of the Snows as your parish, but do you come to church here often?

He glared at me, but knowing my question was legitimate, answered it honestly.

When appropriate.

Which is?

Funerals, weddings, sometimes baptisms, and usually Easter and Christmas.

And your wife?

Oh, she belongs to one of the sodalities. She’s here quite often, except when she’s helping me.

I made a note on a pad, and continued questioning.

So, tell me, if you don’t come to church, what do you do on Sunday mornings?

Oh, I’m busy. I used to be a professional football player, he replied, pride beginning to ooze out of every pore. With the conversation switching to him, he began to relax. Nowadays, I coach the youth football teams. It’s my private little effort to keep the boys and girls out of trouble.

And you do this on Sunday morning?

Well, yes. We tried all the other times, but school or work always seemed to get in the way. Sunday mornings turned out to be best for everyone. He looked down at his feet like a little boy caught by his mother doing something forbidden. Sorry, I know we compete with your schedule, but Sunday morning is the only time when there is no insuperable conflict.

Madame Mettlebanc knocked at the door just then, and brought in some coffee. The interruption diverted our attentions, and I must admit I found him likeable. I even promised to talk to his daughter and her boyfriend again.

Before he left, however, something within me told me to ask him one more question.

Tell me, I said, shaking his hand, do you remember way back when you were learning your catechism as a little boy, who the Holy Spirit is?

Not specifically, he replied, but He’s in the prayers.

Might be a good person for you to remember from time-to-time, I advised. He’s very reliable when you’re in need of some outside help.

The next Sunday I had the ushers count the number of school age boys and girls at Mass. For those above nine years, the count was seven boys and 17 girls out of a possible 200.

Chapter IV

O ne grows quickly into routines, and as soon as I relaxed in my new environment, I found my afterhours quite pleasant. Throughout my priesthood, my boon companion has been Mary Magdalene, a striped, orange cat, who during our life together has earned her name over and over again through a profligate lifestyle, which despite my watchful eye, counseling and admonitions, has produced 46 kittens for her, and a long list of IOUs for me when I am forced to give them away.

Generally, after Madame Mettlebanc and the last of the daytime callers leave, I retire to the kitchen with Mary Magdalene to start some sumptuous casserole which we both might like. I’m a rather good cook, if I do say so myself, and since this nightly occupation is attended by a glass of beer and a bit of cheese, well, what can I say? I find my time in the kitchen very enjoyable. And so does M.M., particularly since I share the cheese with her.

We are late diners. Once I have our meal in the oven, I usually retire to my study to watch the evening news on the television and to read a good book before a fire in the fireplace prior to venturing out across the churchyard to close up Our Lady’s chapel for another night. M.M. and I eat our dinner upon my return, and if the weather permits, the two of us go out for a short postprandial stroll. Afterwards, sometime we will retire to the study again, or if it is late, we might go directly to bed.

Already, there was snow upon the ground, and if the truth be known, Mary Magdalene much prefers her tuffet by the fire to any nighttime wanderings Sometimes, to avoid these, she simply disappears upstairs.

On one such night, I returned from my stroll dead tired from a morning of house-to-house calls, which is part of learning the parish, and an afternoon of poring over the parish’s records with an accountant. The house-to-house calls told me that parishioners were friendly but uninvolved, and my bout with the accountant told me that the parish was broke. In any case, I made straight for my bed, and was sound asleep before Mary Magdalene had time to make three turns in her sleeping box in the corner of my bedroom before settling in for the night.

Tired as I was, it was not to be a peaceful night. At a little after 3 in the morning, I was awakened by the sound of engines, sirens and shouting. Mary Magdalene and I both raced to the window, and looking out, could see a large crowd assembled across the way to watch the church burn. The conflagration evidently had been going on for some time, for we were just in time to see a part of the roof collapse. Despite my horror, it crossed my mind that my parishioners as a body were so solidly bound together as insiders that they had lacked the grace to come to the rectory and wake me. Indeed, an outsider here was truly an outsider. Nevertheless, M. M. and I quickly joined the spectators across the street.

By 5 a.m., the crowd had dispersed. The flames were out, and Mary Magdalene and I headed back to the rectory for breakfast. There was no reason to call the chancery at that hour, so I sat down with coffee and a couple of croissants to make a list of all the things I should do once the world went back to work. By the time Madame Mettlebanc arrived, I had detailed more for her to do than was possible in any one day. As for me, I also had many things to do, but most important was to call the bishop.

This is Fr. Moet, I began. Bad news, Your Excellency. Last night my church burned down.

I know, Father, the bishop’s kindly voice replied. I heard it on the morning news. Are you all right?

Physically fine, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure, but I’m still suffering a bit in shock when I look across at a pile of ashes where the church used to be. Otherwise, I’m okay though. I called to tell you the news, and to see if there is anything I should be doing other than finding a place to say Mass on Sunday.

I’m sure there’s a whole list of things. You can start by compiling a list of your needs. There’s no way for you to know it, so I’ll have to tell you plain out that we don’t insure the old churches like Our Lady of the Snows. We don’t, because even if we did, there’s no way we could afford to rebuild them in the manner they were originally constructed. Furthermore, when a place is completely destroyed, the state won’t help in the restoration either, even if it’s a landmark.

I gulped, and he caught the gist of my dismay.

Be brave, Father. All is not lost, for we do have a contingency fund to provide for clean-up and to help keep you in business. I’ll have the business manager of the diocese send you the details.

I shook my head, and said nothing for a moment. Inside, my brain was shaking too… in disbelief, I’m afraid. No money to rebuild… that meant a building fund campaign.

Please tell Fr. Benedict that Our Lady’s chapel survived unscathed.

I will, I will, he said rather hurriedly. I must go now, Father. I’m due for Mass, and they’ve sent an altar boy to get me. Keep your chin up and keep in mind that starting anew is sometimes the best thing that can happen to a parish.

Chapter V

T hat first day after the fire, a series of visitors came from the diocesan office to view my ruins. Each shook his head and gave me his best advice. On the second day, I was visited by the fire inspector, who informed me that the church had caught on fire because of faulty wiring.

I don’t know what you intend to do, Father, he said sympathetically, but we’ve looked at the foundations, and don’t recommend you try to rebuild on them. We have also inspected the chapel that remains, for both fire and safety, and here are the things you will need to do to bring it up to code. He handed me a list. I took time to glance at his report, and the greatest problem there also seemed to be wiring.

Because the rubble may prove to be an attractive nuisance, work should commence promptly to clean up the debris. You’ll be sent an official notice after I’ve filed my report. From that point on, you’ll have 30 days from the date of the order in which to comply. I’m telling you now in case you need a couple of extra days to get started.

I thanked him, notified the diocese, and three days later, I had a crew working. Dump truck after dump truck came and went laden with their burdens of stone and ash, glass and mortar, and the burned out stumps of great beams.

It takes time to clean up after the loss of a building the size of Our Lady of the Snows church, and it was the end of the first week before the crew finally reached the area where the old high altar had once stood. One of the large overhead beams that had supported the roof had fallen on top of the altar and broken its marble top in two. The massive marble pieces were too heavy for the smaller equipment they’d been using on the site, and a large front-lift tractor was brought in for their removal. The bigger tractor was just right for the job, but too heavy for the subflooring of the church. A rear wheel broke through, exposing the area below, causing the project foreman to visit me.

We’ve found something, Georges Rennet reported, and we think you ought to come see it.

For a change, it was sunny outside, so I pulled on my heavy crewneck sweater and followed him out across the churchyard to where the men were working. Getting down on his knees, Georges took a crowbar, and next to the spot where the tractor had broken through, he began to remove other pieces of the stone flooring. Another man followed him up, removing some of the deteriorating subfloor with a chain saw. Before long, I could see why I had been called there. Below, in the gloom, stood a set of stone stairs.

I’m sorry this has taken so long, Georges remarked upon seeing me shudder from the cold as the sun momentarily crept behind a cloud. When the tractor broke through, I used a flashlight and could see the stairs. I thought we could get to them in a couple of minutes, but as you can see, ‘things take longer than they do.’ I smiled at his play on words, and knew exactly what he meant.

Apologies over, Georges entered the hole he had made and started down the stairs with me in close pursuit. At the bottom, we came face-to-face with a huge iron door. He tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He tried to pry it open with his crowbar, but still no luck.

It’s locked, he said finally. What do you say to using a cutting torch on it? We should be able to cut the hinges and walk right in.

Yes, surely, I responded, but no sooner were the words out of my mouth than my subconscious gave me a prod. No, no, wait!" I shouted, following him up the stairs, tugging at his arm as he started off towards his trailer to fetch the acetylene equipment.

There was an old key that Fr. Benedict showed me on my first day here. He didn’t know what it was for. You didn’t come across a key like that, did you? It was made of iron, and would have been in amongst the rubble over there, I said, pointing to the area where the sacristy had been.

Yes, we did find a key like that, he responded. It was a couple of days ago, and I put it aside to show you. I’ll go fetch it. Before he had finished his sentence, he was through the hole in the floor and headed for the trailer that was parked on the corner of the lot.

Better bring back something to lubricate the lock with, I called after him. He heard and he did. The oil helped; the key fit; and in no time we were inside the door, surrounded by a treasure trove.

There were crosses and candlesticks of gold in abundance, golden chalices studded with jewels, and most of all, what appeared to be a whole library of ancient writings: scrolls from Roman times, books from the Dark Ages and books from the Middle Ages. There were big books and small books, but mostly hand-copied books that were typical of the monasteries before the advent of the printing press. Each volume had been carefully stored on planks above the level of ground dampness. Each also was separately wrapped in linen. I looked at one or two, but rather than disturb them further, decided to leave them for experts to handle.

Georges and his men helped to evacuate the gemmed and gold antiquities to the basement of the rectory, and then we relocked the iron door to keep the books secure. That over, as soon as I could get my head together I called the chancery to ask for help. The very next day, I had confirmation from the university that it was sending one of its own to take charge.

News