The Framed Father

One-2

I FIND FATHER ABBOT at the reproduced Grotto of Lourdes, seated on one of the rough-hewn wood benches. The elder monk looks deep in prayer. I approach him quietly, stepping softly on the warm summer grass. It’s just after 9:00 a.m. and the early July sun is already hot. I’m sweating by the time I get to the Grotto. The sun is glistening off the white marble statue. I stand a respectful distance away so as not to disturb him.

After a few moments, he looks at me and smiles. “Come, Father, sit by me,” he says, patting the seat next to him.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Father Abbot,” I say, sitting down. “I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t important.”

He shakes his head. “It’s perfectly all right, my son. I just come here to meditate. It’s often the quietest place on the property. The enclosure gets too noisy sometimes.”

I smile inwardly. The monastery is too quiet for me sometimes, and he finds it noisy.

“Now, what is it you need to say to me?” he says, turning to face me.

I tell him about the Archbishop’s call. “So he’s taking you away from us?”

“Only temporarily,” I say, “only until I can get this situation at Saint Clare’s straightened out.”

“Temporarily,” he repeats. “But he gave you no idea how temporary this would be, did he?”

“No,” I say hesitantly, “but I can’t imagine it would take very long. It’s ridiculous, these allegations, and it should only take a week or so to wind up.”

He considers what I say, turning to the statue of the Blessed Mother. “Well, I suppose we have no choice,” he sighs. “You’re still under the Archbishop’s authority, and I think we can manage for a few days without a priest. I can still say Mass; one brother will help me move around.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You, the brothers, everyone has been so good to me since I came. It’s been a real blessing to me.”

He smiles and places his wrinkled hand over mine. “You’ve been a blessing to us, Father . . . to me.” He pauses. “Have you gotten what you came here for?”

“I came here to serve, to help the monastery, to repay you for what you did for me years ago.”

Father Abbot smiles. “Yes, I know that’s why you say you came. But that’s not why you came. You know that. So, I ask again, have you gotten what you came here for?”

I look at the statue of Mary, then the statue of Saint Bernadette. Often my thoughts have returned to this spot, to this place of prayer and solitude, to the day—the moment—I received the call to the priesthood. Out of the depths of my despair over my wife’s murder, out of the depths I had sunk to in trying to numb my pain, I had found myself in the monastery all those years ago, wanting peace. What I found then was peace—and a new life.

What had I come back for? After Helen arrested Joan’s murderer, after I saw him convicted and locked away, after all the events of last fall, I needed to find peace again. Have I found it? Maybe. But after four months in the quiet and solitude, I am feeling restless and am secretly not sorry to be called to go out again.

“I think so,” I reply. “I guess I really won’t know until I leave.”

“The guilt you once carried, do you still carry it?”

I take time to consider this before I can admit the truth. “No,” I whisper. “That’s gone, but I still grieve for Joan, for what I lost, not just when she died, but when I learned all that I did last year. It still hurts, even after all this time.”

“You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t,” Father Abbot says. “We never really get over our losses. A loved one dies. A favorite pet runs away. Our innocence is taken from us.” He pauses and smiles wistfully. “Someone you love marries another person.”

I look at him, my mouth open to speak. He looks at me and smiles. “I wasn’t always a monk, Father Tom. But that was a long time ago. I never—well, rarely—think about it. So when I say we never really get over loss, I know what I’m saying. Loss isn’t something we get over. It’s just something we learn to live with. Some people suppress it, others replace it, and others allow their losses to consume them. It’s those last who have the hardest time.”

“What have you done with yours?”

He smiles. “I’m still figuring that out.”

***