Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Then, without warning, an image comes. He sees it in his imagination, yet it is as if it has not come from his imagination and is almost three dimensional. He is within what he sees. He is sitting at the feet of Christ, who is seated on the grassy slope of a pasture above Rajska Polja. Josip is about eight years old. He knows that the Savior of the world is but a meter away, but he cannot look up at his face. He is ashamed of his dirty clothing and his sins, the blood he has swallowed in his life and the blood on his hands. He cannot lift his face, which is pressed into his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his own legs.

  Josip, says a deep voice, as warm and vast as the sea.

  He knows whose voice this is, but he still cannot look up.

  Josip.

  He is unworthy, he cannot!

  Josip.

  The third utterance of his name enables him to look up. He is not yet able to meet the eyes of the Savior of the world, yet he can glance hesitantly at the large hands opened before him and look right into the holes in the palms.

  Put your hands into mine, says the voice.

  He obeys, but shame and grief and loneliness mingle into one sense, a conviction that this is not the way he should have been. For here again after all this time is the blood he has struck from the faces of others.

  Waves of love come to him from the hands of Christ, even as the boy realizes that his own hands are pressing the wounds.

  Does it hurt you? Josip asks.

  Yes, it hurts me, Christ gently replies. There is no reproach in the words, only an assurance that he desires to bear this for love’s sake.

  A bell in the tower rings, the Mass has ended, and the people around him are leaving. Josip blinks open his eyes and stands. He returns to his apartment in a state of wonder not unmixed with puzzlement.

  During none of the daily Masses at St. Francis church is this extraordinary experience repeated. Yet at the following Sunday Mass in the cathedral, it happens again. Everything about it is the same as the first, except that after they hold hands, Christ asks him to stand up and walk with him. Josip stands, and they stroll slowly hand in hand through a forest meadow toward a distant snow-capped mountain. Josip still cannot look at Christ’s face.

  The tower bell is ringing; the Mass has ended. Josip rises and goes home.

  He wonders if he is producing this experience in his overactive imagination, if it has come from his own creative powers. Perhaps it is a grace of his union with the Eucharistic Jesus combined with those human powers. He does not know. He cannot understand it, really. But the next Sunday it happens again. Now Josip is strolling once more with Christ. Christ is a grown man, Josip is still a small boy. For most of his life he has tried to walk with Christ, though never has it taken a form in his mind—certainly not a form like this. Today as they walk together, Christ asks him—he does not command—asks him to look up and see his face, and to do so while holding the large hand in his own, even though Josip’s fingers are hurting the wound. He looks up and sees the face of God, the warm and strong face, gazing at him. Christ’s expression is serious, gentle, and pleased that Josip has trusted in his love, trusted enough to believe that God is taking all his sins into his own hands and heart, and has forgiven him.

  The bell rings; the Mass has ended.

  Throughout these weeks, a convergence of odd things happen in the realm of the exterior—a veritable traffic jam of troubles. He trips down the stairs of the apartment building and breaks his right index finger, which must be set in a cast and continues to cause him some pain. He cannot sleep well because of it. Nor can he write. A chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling and smashes onto his bed, which he had vacated only a moment before. A man he passes on the street spits on him for no apparent reason. Then a rock band from America arrives and practices its raucous music for three days in the rented apartment on the floor above, and their drunken parties continue until dawn. They perform to a crowd on the promenade and depart, leaving a foul taste in the air.

  Worst of all, an unsigned editorial appears in a daily newspaper, still run by former Communists, that purports to have unearthed the poet Josip Lasta’s secret past. He was raised by an uncle who was a Chetnik. Lasta, too, was a Chetnik and is still in favor of Greater Serbia. To correct the lies would demand an exposition of the truth that, in some ways, is more horrifying. His uncle was not a Chetnik but, rather, a Communist Partisan who fought side by side with Chetniks and killed countless men, women, and children. His uncle may even have killed Josip’s parents along with other beloveds in his home village. How to say all that! It would sound insane! Not to mention the fact that it probably would confuse things even more. He writes a reply to the paper, stating simply that the accusation is untrue. He was raised by a Communist aunt after the death of his parents, who were killed by a Partisan unit that had Chetniks and Communists in it. His parents were devout Catholics, not political. His reply is never published.

  The following Sunday, he hastens to Mass with expectation, hoping that there will be another meeting. He knows that every Mass in the world is an encounter with Christ, but he is eager for this new revelation. And after Communion it happens again. Josip greets him with a smile this time, takes the offered hand and looks down with some worry that he is hurting it, then looks up again. Christ smiles, reassuring him, and they resume their walk. They stop in a field beneath a sun brighter than any Josip has ever seen before, yet it does not hurt his eyes. It is a light that the eyes cannot register, and it is coming from the Lord’s face.

  Christ smiles again. Josip takes his large hand in both of his own, and looks up into the face as once little Sasa gazed adoringly into the face of Fra Anto. Josip makes a skip, hesitant at first, then jumps up and down. The Lord lifts his arm, and Josip’s arm raises with it, his feet performing a dance, twirling in a circle and growing in confidence as he abandons himself to laughter and delight—it is good, it is all good, the joy that fills him now. And so, he dances before the Lord as they walk onward toward the mountain.

  The bell rings; the Mass has ended.

  That week an article appears in a scurrilous Zagreb paper accusing Josip Lasta, the cause célèbre of Croatian letters, of spying for Serbia during the Homeland War. Casual acquaintances refer to it in passing, assure Josip that they do not believe it, yet their faces reveal uncertainty—such is the power of accusations. His parish priest tells him about it too but does not show him the paper itself. Flustered, Josip denies everything. The priest assures him there is no need to defend himself, tells him to relax, this sort of thing is to be expected. He knows him well, knows his past and his soul.

  As they drink coffee together in a bistro not far from the waterfront, Josip asks him in a general sort of way, a theoretical way, about spiritual blessings and consolations. A certain person whom he knows has begun to experience such blessings even at a late age in life.

  “What are these blessings, precisely?” asks the priest.

  “Images in the mind after Communion, very strong, almost three dimensional. With very consoling feelings. Time goes away for a while and he is inside what he sees. He has dialogues with the Lord.”

  “Audible?”

  “Not with the ears. Heard in the interior but coming from an exterior source.”

  “Is your friend feeling concerned about it?”

  “A little. He wonders if it’s just his imagination getting carried away. He’s a bit worried it might be self-deception, or worse, diabolic deception.”

  The priest has a doctorate in theology from a university in Rome, and he is also spiritual. He ponders and replies, “Well, such phenomena must be weighed carefully because spiritual pride is always a danger in human nature, pride of any kind, really.”

  “Why, then, does God permit it to happen?”

  “You have to remember, Josip, that consolations are a great gift. Many people have them. Some in our parish do, and I think if we inquired we would find that it happens in every parish.”

  “There must be many hol
y people in St. Francis parish, then.”

  “There are many striving for holiness. Isn’t that the best any of us achieve, this striving? Consolations are not a reward for piety. They are not in proportion to one’s personal sanctity. They are given for a purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “It varies from person to person. I think they are given in order to encourage someone, to help him persist in a mission for which he might not otherwise have the strength.”

  “Does everyone have them?”

  “Not everyone receives consolations. Many saints didn’t; many saints did. So, you see, it’s related to the mystery that God is working in each particular soul. There are known principles involved in discernment, but it’s not a science.”

  “We’re not mechanisms”, Josip murmurs, as if addressing himself.

  “That’s right, we’re God’s children, even God’s lovers.”

  “I will remind my friend not to be worried about it.”

  “Remind your friend that if he’s also experiencing an increase of trials, especially humiliations, this is a good sign. Even better if he bears them without complaint or anger.”

  The next Sunday the meeting with Christ is repeated. After the dance, they come to the brow of a hill and look out over a rolling plain. Then a light descends from the sky unlike any light ever seen by man, but with something solid within it. Josip cannot make out what it is. This image lasts no longer than a moment, and there is an incompleteness to it. The bell rings; the Mass has ended.

  The trees are unfurling new leaves now that the warm season is returning. To honor it Josip scavenges a windfall orange in a park. It is a winter orange, the kind that people and birds are not much interested in.

  Sour? he wonders. He peels and eats it.

  “Sweet”, he says, swallowing the last bite with a grin.

  The following Sunday, Josip kneels after Communion and puts his forehead onto his arms and closes his eyes. Dare he hope that these meetings will continue? Indeed, the Lord does come. He is here, he is here, he is here! Jesus greets him with the look of love, his hand reaching toward him.

  Josip reaches too. Then, he stops and jerks his hand back. He sees that it is old again, gnarled with blue veins, covered with brown spots. He sees that his body is stooped with age, sore of heart and fatigued in mind. He is mostly bald, the fringes of hair at his temples are white, and his skull is covered in scars. His face sags, and his eyes are watery and exhausted. Yes, exactly as he is now.

  Jesus takes his hand. He wants Josip to walk with him as usual.

  “But I am no longer a child”, he protests.

  The smile of the Savior tells him that this is no impediment.

  As is now their practice, they walk slowly hand in hand toward the brow of the hill, passing through the forest and the meadows. The Lord stops, turns to Josip, and says, Come, let us run. With these words, Christ becomes a child in a white robe, girded with a golden belt, his arms open wide. He is radiating light and joy and a love so great no human heart can contain it.

  Come, he says again and takes Josip’s hand. The Child’s little hand is pierced through from side to side. Stricken with grief, the old man drops it and falls to his knees. He cannot touch such a wound! And he is too old to run; please do not ask this of him!

  The Child runs ahead, gazing back, encouraging Josip to follow. The old man gets up and stumbles forward with aching limbs, sore lungs, and swords poking at his heart. There, in the distance, the Child is waiting for him on the brow of the hill.

  Josip falls to the ground and can’t go on. No, no, he’s too old, too tired!

  The Child returns to him and takes his hand, lifting him to his feet.

  Come, he says once more.

  So, Josip continues to stumble onward, hand in hand with the Child. As he goes, he becomes steadily lighter. Now his legs are moving, and he is running, and as he runs he grows younger and younger and younger until he is a child again. When he arrives at the hilltop, the other boy turns to look out at the valley beyond. He lifts an arm, pointing to where Josip must look.

  A city has filled the valley. It is the celestial city, given from above. Beyond the valley it spreads in all directions, even onto the surface of the sea and inland over the hills and forests, rising higher and higher above all the mountains. The city is gold. The city is light. And it is full of happy people.

  It will come down to earth, Josip, and here you will live with me.

  41

  There are no more such meetings after that. He longs to see the Child again. He tries to make it happen in his imagination, but he cannot, and that is evidence that the meetings have not originated in himself but were given. So, life resumes, as it must. He returns to ordinary time. His usual habits of prayer and sacraments continue as before, and in them he experiences less dramatic consolations and desolations.

  As spring becomes summer and passes into autumn, the consolations decline and then cease altogether. In their place, a simple quietness grows. He no longer writes down the glimmers of illumination extracted from the glory that is continuously manifested in the world. What is a poem if not a substitute for its source? He reads Scripture for hours each day, as if hearing it for the first time. These words are not pieces of a large thought-machine, nor components in a coded manual, they are—well, what are they? Like nothing else on earth. They are surely alive, and they are also a summit upon which he stands and looks into time, awaiting the arrival of the celestial city.

  He prays for the souls who have hurt him. He remembers them all, one by one, and there is no longer any pain in this. He prays also for the souls he has hurt—hurt mostly through indifference and neglect.

  His habits have simplified, and he has begun to fast more often, bread and water only on Fridays, never any meat. A little fish. A little less coffee. There are other forms of penance, humiliations being the best, because he does not like those at all. Occasionally, he goes on parish pilgrimages to various shrines. Within the city there is one he can go to on foot, near Solin. He can walk there and back in a day with lots of time to pray. There are other local places, too, not the miraculous ones that are farther afield. He knows that they are all miraculous, both the near and the far.

  A postcard comes from Ryan, a photo of the towers of the World Trade Center, missing these past few years. Subtraction—absence as sign.

  Dear Djedica Joseph,

  Mom gave me a dictionary. I won’t see you this year. I won the scholarship to Oxford. Bicycle from UK to Split summer after next. Can I stay with you? Hardly know you. Let’s fix that soon.

  Love,

  Ryan (unuk)

  Can you stay with me, beloved stranger, my grandson? Yes, you can—yes, you may. Come soon, stay a lifetime if you wish.

  A letter from Marija:

  My Tata,

  I keep and treasure all these letters we have been exchanging, the mysteries of the past solved one by one. Of course, I agree with you when you write that nothing is solved, that our lives are not picture puzzles that must be completed in order to be understood. I think your poems complete it in a better way—resolve rather than solve. One may solve a broken car by consulting a manual. One does not solve human lives. Need I tell you!

  Since you left, I have been slowly going through Mama’s papers. Last night I came upon a silver box that she kept in the bureau drawer in her bedroom—I know this drawer to be the place where she kept the most treasured things of her life. Her Bible and rosaries, a photograph album of her children’s momentous events. Dad’s letters to her and her mother’s wedding ring. Of her years in Croatia, as you know, there remain only the swallow and the white stone. In the box, I discovered something more from those days. And it is these that I send you. A ship load of mementos could not equal them.

  I hope to visit you before too much more time elapses. My company demands all my focus because we are on the verge of tremendous growth. I will write about that another day.

  I love you, my
Tata.

  Marija

  Inside the envelope are two old letters. The paper is yellow and brittle, the folds torn by opening and reopening over half a century.

  The first in his own handwriting:

  . . . I have seen you with my own eyes, though this does not necessarily mean that you exist in any realm accessible to me. Are you real? Did you see me that evening as I saw you?

  I do not wish to compromise the purpose of the cultural group, to use it merely as an excuse to enter the palace where you live. Yes, your father’s house is now a palace. To do so would be dishonest of me, at the least a mixed motive. For you I must have only the purest motives, even though it may cost everything, indeed the consequence of never again seeing you in this world.

  You are here (whether in this world or not).

  I am here.

  I will say no more.

  The second is Ariadne’s:

  . . . Will it be that I shall read this to myself when I am a very old woman? And will I smile over that moment long ago, when I met a young man who was all that my heart ever desired, to whom I desired to give my whole being? And will I feel no more than a mild regret that he was here for a moment only, and then he passed on and disappeared out of my life? Or will it be that he becomes my life? If you read this at some point in the future, if you read it when you are young or when you are old, or read it unbeknownst to me, or never read it, Josip, you will not fade from the sanctuary of my soul, neither in this world nor in the next.

  How much time does he have left? Is he seventy-three or seventy-four, or older? He cannot remember. Well, no matter. Years, years, what are years? Circlings of the sun, an arbitrary measurement. With God, a thousand years are as a day, and a day is as a thousand years, and if the days remaining to him be many or few, does he really need to know? To know is not his task. Everything gets simpler and simpler as he grows younger and younger. You learn something new every day. You discover that you never really knew what you thought you knew. You cease running from what is behind and race toward what is coming.