The Angelic Occurrence

by Henry K. Ripplinger

  “So, does she have children?”

  “Yes, two boys, I think they are 8 and 9.”

  “Well, they must be quite something.”

  There was a long silence and finally Mrs. Lawson spoke. “Well, they don’t come and visit that often. They are very busy, you know how it is with young families, nowadays. They have so many activities planned, lessons to take…and…” Mrs. Lawson’s voice trailed off, carrying a tone of disappointment.

  Father sensed she was lonely, but didn’t want to pursue it, yet.

  “And, you, Mr. Louis, how long have you been here?”

  “Oh, it’s been at least eight years. Ever since my car accident, I needed someone to help. I tried living at home with mom, but she is getting on and can barely look after herself, so here I am giving Angela a rough time, every day.”

  Angela caught the tail end of that comment, as she picked up an empty plate and set down a bowl of jelly in front of Helen at the same time.

  “Oh, you’re pretty easy to look after, Johnny Louis.”

  By the time dinner and dessert was over, Father tried to talk to everyone at the table. Some responded, but most of them were very abrupt, answering yes or no without really engaging in a conversation. By the time Father got to his dessert, only two people were left at the table; Mr. Louis and Margaret, who was sort of dozing off.

  “Would you like to sit in the TV room, Margaret?” Angela asked, almost yelling.

  Margaret startled awake. Angela put her hand on her shoulder and gently shook Margaret’s shoulder. Margaret looked up at Angela. Angela repeated her question and Margaret nodded. Angela helped Margaret up and together they walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  “Well, Mr. Louis, it’s a lovely evening to sit out in the courtyard and have a cup of tea, shall we go out and watch the sun go down?”

  “Oh, no thanks, Father. There is a TV show coming on in 10 minutes that I want to watch. But you go ahead. Perhaps I will see you later.”

  “Of course, Mr. Louis. May I call you Johnny?”

  “For sure, Father. Mr. Louis is way too formal for me.”

  Father smiled. Angela appeared again bringing his tea.

  “Oh, I think I will have my tea in the courtyard.”

  “I’ll carry it out there for you and set it on the patio table.”

  “Thank you, Angela. That is very kind of you.”

  Father followed Angela outside.

  It was a gorgeous late fall evening and the air was unusually still for the prairies since the courtyard was surrounded by the care home, keeping the stronger breezes out. The sun was far off to the west and low in the clear cloudless sky. Only half of the courtyard at that time could still catch the sun’s light. The shadows of the tall pine trees crept across and up the east wall of the care home further shielding out the pleasant rays of the sun. Father felt the chill and knew he wouldn’t be out here for long.

  He turned one of the four chairs by the table and sat down. He sipped his tea and gazed at a huge patch of flowers enclosed by a concrete border. Most of the petunias and geraniums were wilted and dead. It looked as though someone had brought out house plants to extend the growing and flowering season. A small area of ground near the north wall looked as if someone put in a garden and hadn’t cleaned up the dead stems and leaves. A barbeque stood near the door next to the kitchen.

  “Well, Lord,” he said almost audibly, “Thank you for bringing me here.” Sounding like he was a parent of a slew of offspring he rambled “It’s good that there is a place to go when we get old, when we become too much of a burden for our children and yet, we’ve looked after them…”

  Father was thinking of Mrs. Lawson and her family that doesn’t come that often to visit. Two or three of the other residents made similar comments. “Yes, we bring children into the world and sacrifice so much to raise them, to clothe them, feed them, educate them and then off they go; get married, raise children of their own and soon we are forgotten. In our later years most of us need help, but where are the children?”

  Father remembered only too well how in the old country, children, parents and grandparents lived together as a family, caring and looking after each other. The elderly were revered, honoured, and respected for their wisdom. Nowadays, it was almost as if the old folks were castaways, forgotten people, put out to pasture and someone else was assigned the burden of tending to their care until death consumed them.

  “Oh, David,” Father mumbled, “Don’t be so hard on this younger generation, like Mrs. Lawson said, they are too busy trying to make a living and getting ahead. But does it have to take top priority over their aging parents? We need each other. I can see the loneliness in their eyes. Their life is like a slow burning candle just waiting to be snuffed out. I’ve seen it in so many care homes during my visits. All too many children have almost abandoned their parents.”

  Father knew why the Lord had led him here instead of some secluded seminary or fancy retreat in the mountains. He took another sip of his tea; there was no need to cautiously drink it, it was as cool as the growing chill in the air.

  He set his cup down and looked at the chair next to him as if occupied by his Lord and asked straight out, “What can we do, Lord, to make these places fun, full of life, full of hope, full of love, full of you, Jesus. What is it that I can do?”

  Father felt warm as he got more fired up. The message was coming in loud and clear. “St. Francis of Assisi said it centuries ago in his wonderful prayer:

  Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.

  Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

  Where there is injury, pardon,

  Where there is doubt, faith,

  Where there despair, hope,

  Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.

  O Divine Master, grant that I may not seek to be consoled,

  As to console;

  To be understood, as to understand;

  To be loved, as to love;

  For it is in giving that we receive –

  It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

  And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

  “Yes, Lord, I understand. I know in my heart what it is that you want me to do. Make me an instrument of your peace. Let me bring light, hope, faith, consolation, joy, let me bring love!”

  It was either the growing coolness that restored him to the presence of the day or the eerie sounds of a pack of coyotes downstream piercing the stillness. The dogs leapt to their feet and barked their way into the chorus. After quieting Coco and Ginger, together they entered the Poustinia. Henry flicked on the light and made sure everything was ready for Father.

  In the living room the two chairs in front of the patio doors facing the pond looked as if they hadn’t been moved or sat in since he bought and put them there well over a year ago. He parted the French doors and peeked into the bedroom; the bed was neatly made and a Bible was open on the table beside a large picture window that faced the brook meandering up the valley. Father often remarked how much he liked to read and look at that view. He felt certain that many times he could see the Lord walking on the stream coming to visit him.

  On the way out, Henry checked the fridge. It was completely empty save for four bottles of water. That’s all Father ever requested when he was here for his three-day retreat. Henry surveyed the living room once more. Crucifixes were above each doorway, with a five foot high one on the wall next to the entrance on the west side. A small altar stood below the cross with a clay chalice centred on the table. Henry remembered the day he hung the huge cross and saw the radiance of a saint reflected on Fathers face. As soon as we brought in the small altar, Father said mass as if he could not wait another minute to eat His body and drink His blood. Henry shook his head in awe at the faith of that holy man.

  The wall opposite
the patio doors had shelves filled with books all related to the Lord, and a stereo with many relaxing CDs, but again, Father never listened to music or read anything but his Bible. The song of silence and his holy book contained everything he needed to hear, to know and more.

  Henry smiled as he recalled the last thing Father said when they departed this afternoon, he wanted to go to the prayer house before winter set in so he could get regenerated for a fresh task. What were he and the Lord up to now?

  Henry hit the light switch then stepped outside, his furry companions following.

  “What an incredible sight,” muttered Henry as his eyes took in the beautiful valley filled with the hush of evening time. Somehow it filled him with even more peace than the view which had enraptured him earlier. He realized that it was at twilight that nature reaches its own quiescence.

  It wasn’t just the soft light when the sun sunk below the horizon. It was the all-pervading atmosphere that arrested one’s troubles and cares. Details which busy and preoccupy the mind during daylight were diminished, almost totally obscured by the growing shadows of the night. The reflection of the distant hills in the silvery water of the pond was reduced to a simple shape of rich darkness contrasting sharply with the light of the rising moon. All the clutter of life disappeared, suggesting timelessness, simple clarity, oneness.

  Without the water, Henry’s artistic sense thought, the beauty of nature, especially during this special time of day would lack life. In the same way the eyes are the windows to the soul and give man a sense of being alive, the glistening, sparkling and sheen of the pond, lake, stream or sea were the eyes of nature and gave it its spark of being, as well; otherwise the earth lay asleep, hiding its soul!

  Henry felt exhilarated at the thought.

  He hadn’t felt so refreshed for as long as he could remember. It was a wonderful day and he vowed to have more of them. A buoyant energy of spirit filled him as he stepped off the deck and followed the dogs on the moonlit path to his quad.

  “Aha, this is Father’s secret to renewed strength and vitality,” Henry chuckled. “No wonder he makes this retreat twice a year.”

  Just as he arrived at his vehicle, he noticed a V-shaped stream glimmering in the pond. If it had not been for that almost imperceptible ripple catching the light, he would never have noticed a beaver cutting through the water. He breathed in the crisp cool air of the glen, the atmosphere redolent of the pine trees he planted there over twenty years ago. All was quiet, save the natural sounds of the valley and the gentle panting of his protective escorts. As the darkness of the evening grew, more and more stars blossomed in the infinite meadows of the sky until the heavens were ablaze with millions of twinkling diamonds.

  “How? How can anyone not believe in You?” whispered Henry. “How can the very being you created dare to question Your existence?”

  The babbling water trickling through the nearby beaver dam seemed to concur Henry’s observation.

  Reluctantly, he pressed the starter, shattering the spell of it all. As he ascended the winding road, he took with him a peace that no amount of money could buy. He understood why Father needed this retreat. It was his fountain of youth that gave him the energy, vigour and perhaps most of all the peace of his Lord which he gave freely to all who came his way.

  Henry knew the Lord was patiently waiting for him to make that retreat, too. He felt the gentle tug almost daily, and he knew Father was praying for his salvation. He could feel the energy of Father’s petitions on his behalf. Twinges of guilt and thoughts of self-condemnation swept through him for his lack of commitment.

  Above the sound of the roaring quad as it sped to the top, Henry cried out, “Oh Lord, give me the strength of conviction to place you completely at the centre of my life. Grant me the courage to follow Father’s footsteps!”

  The echo of his plea resounded like thunder throughout the valley.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The day after Father had said grace at dinner, Angela talked to Doris, the director of the care home, and Hazel, the supervisor, about the issue.

  “Did anyone object?”

  “No. Some kept eating and some stopped and listened.”

  “Well, this was a Catholic facility at one time, but now it’s non-denominational. It’s safer not to try and get too religious or preachy, yet I know they are all Christians and God-fearing people. Frankly,” continued Hazel, “I like the idea of them saying grace at the table. It’s like family and it may help to bring them closer together.”

  “Or further apart,” Doris countered. “Did you see or feel that anyone was offended by Father’s prayers?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did anyone participate?”

  “No. No one joined in either, but most stopped eating and listened except for…”

  “For who?” asked Doris.

  “Margaret.”

  “She probably couldn’t hear him,” said Hazel.

  “That’s what I thought,” Angela concurred.

  “Well, perhaps it won’t hurt any,” concluded Doris. Reflecting on it further she added, “Let’s monitor it closely for a few days and see where this leads to. If it becomes a problem I’ll talk to Father about it, right away.”

  During the first few days at the care home, Father considered himself a student. He learned the routine and made a point of meeting everyone either in their room or the TV room. Soon he knew their family backgrounds and their aches and pains. The residents were surprised to suddenly see someone take such an interest in them and quickly began to trust their new member. Father also began to take some of the residents for a walk down the hallways. His favourite pathway was towards the chapel. Several of the residents hadn’t even known it was there.

  After breakfast that morning, Father took two of the more elderly residents by the hand and invited them to go for a walk with him. After they had expressed some aches and pains at the table they consented to talk to Jesus about them.

  “Hello, Jesus, how are you on this fine day?” Father said as they entered the chapel. “I have two guests for you to meet, today. This is Margaret and this is Greta.”

  After they were seated, Father began to pray on their behalf. “Dear Jesus, Greta has a sore back, would you be so kind as to rub it a little with your love. Soothe it with your warm and gentle touch. Thank you, Lord. Greta and I appreciate that very much.”

  Turning to Margaret he asked, “Is there anything you wish to pray or thank the Lord for?”

  Margaret not used to this kind of conversation put her head down and softly said, “No, I’m fine.”

  After a minute’s silence, Father said, “Well, Greta, we can go, now. Does your back feel better?”

  “Yes, Father, much better.” She looked to the cross above the altar, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  Greta turned to Father and smiled as she squeezed his hand. “He never lets you down does He, Father?”

  “I’ve never known Him to, Greta.”

  “Well, let’s get back to the family room and see what Angela has planned for us.”

  Most days the care home had an activity or two planned, such as playing cards, doing crafts, drawing and painting and also exercising. The care home made every effort to provide something for the residents to do. But the activities were routine and mechanical. The staff continued with these events more so out of a sense of duty and job requirement. Father felt the activities and relationships were superficial and lacked that personal touch that stirred the heart and soul.

  “What we all need,” concluded Father, as he sat in the chapel talking with the Lord, “Is to put You into the heart and soul of this care home. We need You to fill our hearts to overflowing, to banish the loneliness, to make us truly a family. We also need to reach the people outside these walls and remind them of their parents, their brothers and sisters, their aunts and uncles. We need to remind t
hem of their responsibilities, their great need to love and care for those in the care home.

  “Children need to understand that all too soon they, too, will be in one of these homes waiting for someone to come through the door to hear their name being called by a loved one, or a relative. A sign that they are still cared for, not forgotten. My Lord, we’d better get busy.”

  Father Engelmann scheduled an appointment with Doris for Thursday morning.

  “Come in, Father, have a chair. Close the door, if you wish.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary. I have nothing to say that needs to be private.”

  “Well, I see you are settling in quite nicely.”

  “Yes, it’s not too much of an adjustment from the rectory. Just a lot more people to talk to during meal times.”

  “So, how are you finding everything? Is there anything you need or want to make you more comfortable?”

  “Well, in a way there is, Doris.” Doris straightened up in her chair and moved a little closer to her desk.

  “It seems a shame, Doris, that we have such a beautiful chapel and it isn’t used for anything and especially for what it was built for, to celebrate the Holy Mass.”

  “Well, Father, there are not enough priests out there to come here and say mass. Like everyone else nowadays they have no time.”

  “But I do, Doris, I have all the time in the world, at least what time the Lord has left for me. I was wondering if I might say mass in the chapel, every morning, and if I may invite those who would like to attend?”

  Doris stared at Father.

  “You know, Father, the last time a mass was said in the chapel was when a nephew of one of the residents, who was a priest, offered to say mass during his Christmas visit. It was such a joyous occasion and the chapel was packed.”

  “It could be again, every day!”

  “Well, Father, as long as we don’t make it compulsory, and don’t force anyone I can’t see why you can’t say mass.”

  Father smiled, “That’s very understanding, Doris, the good Lord will bless you for this.”