The Light Saga & Other Short Stories
The Healing

Father Anthony was a man of staunch faith, one who ministered to his flock with love, tolerance and kindness, but he bore a secret so burdensome that it had aged him far beyond his actual years. At fifty-six he looked like a man nearing his seventies. His hair, which he always kept very short, was entirely silver. It would inevitably have earned him the sobriquet of “Silver Fox”, had he not been a man of the cloth.

He had a very slight stoop which only served to enhance his image as a pious, humble man. His cerulean eyes had lost much of their brilliance, the colour having been washed out to a faded, tired blue. Perhaps though, the feature that most deceived an observer about Father Anthony’s age was the skin of his face, for it was deeply wrinkled, especially around the eyes and mouth. It also appeared leathery, as if the man had spent far too many days out in a blazing sun. He managed to walk without a limp, even though his knees often pained, and he certainly did much walking.

It was never a strange sight for the residents of Noël to see Father Anthony making his rounds on foot from parishioner to parishioner every day of the week. He was a welcome visitor in every household, treated more like a beloved family member than a clergyman. The abrupt cessation of his daily walks two weeks into the festive season is what first alerted the townsfolk to the fact that something might be amiss with their beloved priest.

“Have you seen Father Anthony on his rounds today?” Julie asked her neighbour, Cody, when she noticed the break in the priest’s routine. Cody was out tending to his roses, but he stopped his gardening to answer Julie.

“Actually, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since Tuesday, which was two days ago.”

“Well, when he delivered the Sunday service,” Julie said, “he looked fine. I’m just surprised that he hasn’t been on his usual rounds since then.”

“The best person to ask would be Dorothy, don’t you think?” Cody suggested.

Dorothy was Father Anthony’s char lady who came to tidy up the vicarage once a week, “not tha’ there’s ever much ta clean”, as Dorothy so often said. Father Anthony was famous for being a meticulously organised man who kept an immaculate home.

A number of other people had also been asking about the priest, wondering if he had perhaps fallen ill. Julie contacted Dorothy the next day to see if she could shed some light on the mystery.

“Ah went ta clean the rectory on Monday, as per u’shal,” Dorothy said in her heavy accent, “bu’ Father Anthony tol’ me there was no need, ya see? He said ah’ve no need to worry ’bout ma wages, as tha’ will still be paid.”

“What did Father Anthony look like though?” Julie persisted. “Did he look fine or did he perhaps look ill to you?”

“Ya know, now ya is mentionin’ it, the father did look kinda outta sorts. Ya know?” Dorothy revealed.

“No, Dorothy,” Julie answered a bit abruptly, her patience having been worn thin by the infuriating woman. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she added.

“No need ta get ya knickers all in a knot now,” Dorothy said, a bit miffed at Julie’s tone. Then she said, “Wha’ I mean is tha’ the father looked a bit grayish, like he was not gettin’ enough sleep, or mebbe he’s not eatin’ proper like. He jus’ seemed, ya know, not hisself,” Dorothy explained.

Julie thanked the woman, immediately jumped into her car and drove over to see Mandisa. She was the organiser of all the church activities; she was sure to know what ailed Father Anthony. Fortunately, Mandisa was at home; she was pleased to see Julie and invited her inside.

“Yes, I know that Father Anthony isn’t himself,” she informed Julie in response to her query. “However, he has requested that I simply leave him to sort out whatever it is that’s disturbing him, and I intend to respect his wishes,” Mandisa stated.

“I understand,” Julie said, “but I feel perhaps he might need some help, yet he isn’t aware that he needs it. Maybe you could just test the waters and ask him if he could specify what the problem is so that we could come to his aid?” Julie suggested.

“That would be doing the very opposite of what he had asked, wouldn’t it?” Mandisa was quick to point out. “I’m also concerned about the dear man,” she added, “but he’s an adult and our priest. We have no choice but to cede to his request,” she ended.

A few minutes later Julie left, feeling frustrated, dismayed and concerned, but she also accepted the fact that they couldn’t offer the father their help if he refused to reach out to them. She had no way of knowing though that Father Anthony’s issue would soon be resolved.

Father Anthony was suffering a crisis; not a crisis of faith, but one of conscience.

“My Lord,” he prayed as he kneeled at his bedside in the early hours of yet another restless night. “I can no longer live with this guilt. I had hoped that serving you all these years would help wash away my shame and sin, but I’ve only felt more and more unworthy with the passing of the years, continuously receiving Your incomprehensible love.You know I am a sinner, one who deserves neither Thy mercy nor Thy love, therefore I ask Thee to cast me into the hell I deserve. I am a hypocrite when I preach to my flock, for I am filled with doubts. Regrettably, I have not the requisite courage to doff my clerical robes and leave the church, as I should, but it has succoured me throughout my life, embraced me when I detested myself, and given me the boundless love I am clearly unworthy of. I am just too much of a coward to face life without this crutch.”

Tears rolled unheeded down his weathered cheeks; his hands were cramped from how tightly he was clutching them together.

“Your son gave His life for us, but I took a life instead. Do I not deserve death? Yet, You have extended Your Mercy to me, called me to Your service instead of smiting me in calamitous punishment. For all these years I have accepted Thy will, bent my soul to Thy bidding, but my Lord, my soul can bear this guilt no longer,” he lamented, his voice cracking with emotion. Overcome by wracking sobs, the priest could pray no further. He rose from his kneeling position and walked over to his desk. Composing himself as best he could, he opened the Holy Bible to read from it, hoping to replace whatever solace he could within its hallowed pages. In spite of himself though, his mind unfurled the past like curtains slowly being drawn back, taking him to that momentous evening thirty-five years ago when life had set him on a different path to the one he had been following until then.

Anthony is slightly concerned that he has missed his father’s 11 PM curfew; he dreads the old man’s ire. Subsequently, he rides his MotoMia bike slightly faster than usual. As he takes the turn into the street leading to his house, he is unable to stop in time when a pedestrian suddenly steps out in front of him.

“Watch out!” he shouts, but it is too late. He smashes sickeningly into the man, sending him tumbling like a wayward leaf to the side of the road. As Anthony loses control of his bike, both bike and biker crash hard to the unyielding tarmac.

Father Anthony moaned aloud at the memory; his brain jumped ahead to the next scene unreeling like frames on a spool of film. The hospital; the sobs of the man’s family; his dad’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Then: the moment that undid the young twenty-one-year old Anthony, the moment his path of atonement was shown to him.

The deceased young man’s girlfriend and his mother approach the remorseful Anthony who expects to be sworn at, cursed, even struck. Instead, what the women say to him punches away his breath far more than any physical blow could have.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the girlfriend, Michelle, says. “Jonathan was a drug addict, and he was probably high when he walked out in front of you.”

“My son wouldn’t listen to us,” the mother says, her eyes bloodshot from weeping. “No matter how many times he promised us he would stay clean, he always went back to the drugs.”

“If he had been healthier, the crash would probably just have broken some bones,” Michelle says, stunning the already speechless Anthony. “You aren’t to blame for his death. You were only an instrument of God,” she states, pulling the mother with her as they leave a thunderstruck, awed Anthony standing in the hospital corridor.

Again, Father Anthony groaned in distress, for he remembered how he had that very same evening told his parents that he wanted to dedicate his life to God in penitence. His father had at first been furious, of course; the old man hated losing control over Anthony, but his mother had surprisingly fully supported him. For the first time in her life, she had stood up to her bullying husband, refusing to be cowed by his rage or threats.

“God has called our Anthony to serve Him, and no matter how much you beat me or threaten Anthony, you cannot prevent what God has ordained,” his mother had said. The memory of her bravery sparked a tiny light within Father Anthony’s darkened soul, but its flame was insufficient to banish the larger spectre of his depression. It still loomed over him, a mountain of guilt supported by spindly pillars.

The dawn light slowly brightened Father Anthony’s bedroom, bringing the priest out of his reverie.

“I have to get ready for morning Mass,” he chided himself. With heaviness draping his heart and soul like a shroud of mourning, the priest went about his duties as if he were not teetering on the edge of an abyss.

The church was radiant with light, every inch of it shining brightly, every surface glowing as a result of the industrious “spring cleaning” it had been subjected to in honour of the occasion. The altar had been festooned with a beautiful mistletoe, red berries and fern leaves wreath, golden stars and a wonderful cornucopia. All the pews were draped with red, green or gold sashes, while a new stained glass window had been commissioned and installed. It depicted a glorious scene of Christ standing with His arms held wide, palms open, in front of a crowd with bowed heads. A single worshipper among the crowd, a young boy, stood smiling up at Jesus, offering Him a ruby red rose in worship. Christ’s focus is upon the boy, a beatific smile conveying His love for the child.

Father Anthony was staring up at the glass mosaic, his eyes hypnotically drinking in the scene. For the first time in weeks, his soul felt slightly lighter, his heart more at ease.

“It must be the special nature of this day,” he thought to himself. “How can I remain downcast when we are about to celebrate the salvation of mankind?” he asked. Yet, he still felt the burden of his guilt settled like a heavy anchor within his being. “It prevents my soul from soaring on this momentous occasion, my Lord,” he prayed silently. “If Thou would so will it, grant me a sign to show that my atonement has been accepted; that the stain of my guilt has been removed from me.”

Father Anthony was still a man of God, in spite of his personal doubts about his own worthiness, thus he could not help but believe that this time of the year was the perfect time to feel God’s presence profoundly. He didn’t know it then, but he was praying for a miracle.

As the congregation left the church that evening after the final service, Father Anthony was surprised to see a sole worshipper still seated in a pew near the sacristy. From where he was standing at the church font, he was unable to identify who it was. He intuited on an instinctive level though that he somehow knew the person; his skin unexpectedly broke out in gooseflesh, as if someone had just walked over his grave. Slowly but unhesitatingly, he approached the person.

“It took me a while to replace your church, Father, but it was worth the effort,” the person said as Father Anthony neared. It was clear from the voice that it was a woman, but when she finally rose to turn around and face Father Anthony, he couldn’t help but stare in sudden recognition. Michelle.

Father Anthony felt the abyss beckon him even more urgently; he felt it’s magnetic pull stronger than ever before. His knees buckled; unceremoniously, he sat down in the closest pew. Michelle hurried over to him, concern written all over her face as she knelt down next to him.

“Forgive me, Father. I didn’t mean to startle or upset you,” Michelle apologised. “I’m not here to dredge up the past or to blame you for anything. On the contrary, I came because I’ve been having dreams about the imperative need to see you,” she concluded, completely flabbergasting the priest.

Father Anthony was once again dumbstruck like so many years ago, but then he found his voice.

“Dreams? About me? About having to see me?” was all he could manage.

“Yes, Father. You see, in my dreams, I saw a darkness surrounding you, drowning you in self-recriminations, guilt, remorse. Initially, I didn’t know who the person in my dreams was. All I knew was that it was crucial that I replace this person to help him out of his own personal misery. Then I had a different dream, one in which I saw you as you were that day in the hospital, and I finally made the connection. I realized that the man surrounded by the threatening clouds of doubt was you,” Michelle explained.

“But how did you replace me? It has been over thirty years since you last saw me,” Father Anthony asked, his heart beating painfully against his chest.

“Your father told me where you were. Luckily, I’m a hoarder and I never threw away that slip of paper on which your father had written your address and telephone number. Fortunately, he still resides at the same place,” Michelle said with some relief.

Father Anthony knew when the Hand of God was involved, and he did not ascribe any of the events to fortune. Being a man of God, he couldn’t help but experience a spiritual epiphany so overwhelming that his entire being shook with it. He feared what Michelle would say next, but he also burned with restored faith.

“Dear God, could this be the sign I’ve prayed for?” he breathed to himself.

As if Michelle had heard him, she said, “Father, you need to release your guilt, your remorse. Your years of attrition are more than what is required of anybody who was blameless in the first place!” she said with some vehemence. Then she lowered her voice and continued, “Jonathan drew his death upon himself. I say again to you now what I told you thirty-odd years ago: you were only an instrument of God. You are a good person, a sincere man of the cloth. Do you think God would have allowed you to serve Him all these years if He were angry with you, unhappy with you? God fears nobody; if He had wanted to punish, humiliate or annihilate you, don’t you think He would have done so years ago?”

Michelle paused to allow Father Anthony time to absorb her words. Softly, like a mother speaking to an especially obstinate child, she whispered, “God forgave you long ago, Father. Don’t you think it’s time you forgave yourself?”

As if a wall obscuring his view abruptly came tumbling down, Father Anthony’s mind finally opened up to the truth. A moment of intense shame afflicted him, but then it passed.

Aloud he said, “I have been so intent on the insistence of my guilt, even relishing it, that I failed to recognise the truth that God had long ago absolved me. I felt justified to wallow in my guilt, not wishing to let go of it because in some perverted way, it made me happy. What an arrogant fool I have been,” Father Anthony chastised himself.

Rising with some difficulty, the old priest walked towards the altar, Michelle following close behind him. Father Anthony gazed with new eyes upon the depiction of Christ on the stained glass window, folded his hands together and humbly said, “The miracle of Christmas lies not solely in Thy birth. Thy love for us is the most powerful cure for whatever ails us.” The priest kneeled reverentially before he spoke again.

“The true miracle, the magnificent glory is this: that Thy birth is a miraculous healing for contrite sinners; an unconditional pardon for strayed worshippers; and a divine mercy for burdened souls.”

As Father Anthony and Michelle departed the church, a single white downy feather spiralled down unseen from the church ceiling to land like the softest blessing upon the altar.