Keefe nodded again, realizing he hadn’t even looked at the verse. He’d poured out his thanksgiving for having made it here, and then he’d swirled in thoughts of unworthiness—was he really meant for this calling? And he’d made every effort to renew his trust in the Lord’s will: he was here for a reason. Sleep had overwhelmed him then, and he’d crawled into bed without another thought.
“So we’ll go around the room with introductions for Keefe, and I’ll give you a general overview of our day. As much as possible, retreatants follow the pattern of our day, but with a bit more time for discernment.” Brother Giles turned to the boy on Keefe’s right, a kid with brown skin and a mop of black curls. “Would you like to go first?”
The boy sat hunched over his plate, fidgeting with a napkin. He wiped his mouth and turned to Keefe, now tapping his fingers on the table. “Oh, hey, my name’s Wolfgang. I come from a big family. Sort of in the middle of ten brothers and sisters.” He gestured with one hand and bounced his leg while he spoke, seeming unable to hold still. “We live here in Minnesota, about three hours away. One of my older sisters is a nun, and one of my brothers is studying for the priesthood.” Leg still bouncing, he shut his mouth and smiled.
Keefe nodded.
The boy next to Wolfgang introduced himself, turning his cool green eyes to Keefe. Active in youth ministry and an altar boy, Kieran and his family were good friends with their parish priest. His priest suggested he prayerfully consider that God might be calling him.
“I’m Alex,” the next retreatant said, his voice soft and misty like clouds of incense that soon dissipate. “I’ve been an altar boy since fourth grade, have two brothers and a sister, and I’m homeschooled. I’ve wanted to be a Franciscan since fourth grade.” He glanced at Keefe and a few others, his reserved manner making him seem like the contemplative sort.
Phil, the final retreatant, was homeschooled and active in youth ministry too. He wore a baby blue oxford shirt, neat and crisp as if ready for prep school, and he spoke with a confident air, his hazel eyes conveying inner strength.
Over the course of breakfast, the brothers introduced themselves too: Charles, Bernard, Salvador, Benedict, Leopold, Paschal. While they all had the brown robes in common, and presumably the desire to follow in the footsteps of St. Francis, their individual personalities shone through as they each spoke. Brother Leopold had a dry sense of humor. Brother Salvador came across as calm and collected. Brother Charles smiled while he spoke, evidently a humorous type. Keefe stopped trying to memorize names and appearances—a shiny bald head, a dark tan, a scraggly black beard, a trim white beard, appears too young for facial hair—and instead concentrated on their brief introductions. Most hinted at the reason they’d felt called.
Running a hand over his beard, Brother Giles explained how he’d known of his vocation since childhood. Brother Salvadore had gone to college and worked two years as an engineer before answering the call. Brother Leopold realized later in life, too, after considering married life. “I grew up in a poor family but we were close.” He twisted his scruffy black beard. “I could see myself being a father, raising children. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, every girl I’d ever been interested in had one foot in the convent,” he said dryly.
Brothers Benedict and Paschal came from big, devout Catholic families, both of which had always encouraged vocations. Other brothers discovered their calling in their teen years, through prayer or at the suggestion of a priest, relative, or friend. Two had siblings in other religious orders.
Keefe set his fork down, his appetite fading. The more he learned of the others, the louder the voice of insecurity spoke to him.
Still sitting hunched, Wolfgang cleaned his plate and fidgeted with his empty coffee cup. A friar offered to refill it, but Wolfgang put a hand up. “Oh, no thanks.” He leaned back in his chair, dropping his hands to his thighs, one leg rapidly bouncing.
Noticing that everyone else had cleaned their plates too, Keefe forced himself to scrape up the last bit of scrambled eggs and shove it into his mouth. A knot formed in his stomach.
After a prayer thanking God for the food, Brother Salvadore assigned the friars and retreatants duties for the day, everyone except for Keefe.
“You’ll come with me.” Brother Giles touched the rosary that dangled from the white cord around his waist. “We can talk for a bit, and then I’ll leave you to prayer. We have our hour of personal prayer now. Then we can talk more.”
The friars and retreatants dispersed for the hour of prayer, some going to the courtyard, others to their bedrooms, one to the living room—passing Keefe and Brother Giles on their way out—and most to the chapel. Brother Giles talked with Keefe in the sun-drenched living room, giving him a few thoughts and a scrap of paper with Scripture verses. “We’ll meet back here in an hour,” he said. Then they parted ways, Brother Giles heading for the front door, Keefe for the chapel.
As he crossed the threshold, his heart flip flopped in his chest and a strange sensation overcame him, making him feel out of sorts. Seeing the others scattered throughout the chapel and wanting to spend his hour alone, Keefe almost drew back. He forced himself to the nearest pew, which was in the back row, and sank to his knees.
His gaze fixed onto the flame in the red sanctuary candleholder suspended from the ceiling. Then he looked to the San Damiano crucifix on the wall behind the candleholder. Natural light crept in through tall, narrow windows that were high on the walls to either side of the solid wall with the crucifix. The only indoor lighting came from the spotlight that illuminated the image of Christ with his arms outstretched on the cross.
Once again, conflicting emotions assaulted Keefe. He didn’t belong here. Yet, in a way that didn’t make sense, he felt more at home here than anywhere in his life. He wanted to be here. He wanted this life, a balance of prayer and service, with his goal to listen to God’s voice and grow in his love for Him, to fulfill the promises he’d made back in Italy. Lord, I will listen to Your voice. I will live knowing You are with me and that You love me. He wanted to live the life of a Franciscan, a life of poverty and obedience—
Obedience? Convicted by the truth, Keefe bowed his head and rested them on his clasped hands. He’d lived obedience all his life. He’d lived under Jarret’s thumb since he could remember. Was he seeking to trade obedience—submission—to Jarret with obedience to a religious order? Life as a friar would be just more of the same. Sure, it would be on a higher level, a more virtuous level; the friars would never ask him to do something against his conscience. But still more of the same. Shouldn’t he be his own man, find the strength to stand on his own two feet first?
Make his own decisions, act on his own convictions... Could he do it? Did the thought of doing it frighten him? Was he running away from life, from the possibility of being lonely like Papa, from making mistakes like Jarret? Or maybe he wanted to get away from Jarret altogether. The things Keefe had gone along with...
The knot in Keefe’s stomach tightened. He bowed his head lower. If the friars knew his past, they wouldn’t want him.
He had to admit that the other boys here had much different upbringings. Half had been homeschooled. They’d all grown up in two-parent families, all surrounded by faith-filled people. Sheltered, protected, safe in enclosed gardens, prepared for a life of humility and self-sacrifice for the Kingdom of God.
Keefe’s life had been a wreck... no enclosure whatsoever... a garden overrun with weeds. Mama had died when he was young, and Nanny had raised him for the most part. Papa didn’t practice the faith regularly. Jarret had a ton of issues. And even Roland...
His entire family was dysfunctional.
He’d never been an altar server. Shoot, he’d been away from the Church for years. Couldn’t remember a lick of the Catechism that Mama had taught him before she died. Being so wrapped up with Jarret’s life, he’d never thought about a vocation. No one in his life, whether serious or joking, had ever suggested that he might have a calling. They’d se
en nothing special in him.
Little knots formed within the big knot in his gut. Despair threatening to overtake him, Keefe dropped his head into his hands and a deep groan escaped. He hoped no one had heard it, but the acoustics in the chapel magnified everything.
Keefe took a breath and lifted his head. He needed to get off this train of hopelessness and make sense of things. This was a discernment retreat, after all. He needed to get better at discerning.
Let’s see... Brother Giles had suggested that Keefe pray to the Holy Spirit and think of the gifts, talents, and interests that God had given him. What was he good at? With his recurve bow, he could hit a target seventy yards away. He could play six different pool games, and win. Though he’d never competed with anyone but family, he wasn’t half bad at fencing or marksmanship. He could beat Jarret at any of those games. If he wanted to.
Annoyed by the pride he felt over those worldly accomplishments, he shook his head and his gaze shifted to the carved doors of the golden tabernacle behind the altar. Jesus, my Lord. What did any of that matter in the grand scheme of things? What other gifts did he have? He could take care of and look out for others, and follow another’s lead. Maybe he needed to face it: he was best as a helper and a follower. Could he be called to family life? Marriage and children. Maybe he wasn’t friar material.
Getting up from his knees, Keefe slouched back in the pew. He exhaled, rubbed his face, and gazed at the San Damiano crucifix. Maybe God had only wanted him to prove his willingness to go anywhere and do anything. And he’d done that. He’d come here. He’d stopped along the way to help someone. And now maybe he should go back home. He wasn’t cut out for this.
A hint of relief washed through him. If this wasn’t his calling, he could stay with the familiar, his garden overrun with weeds. He wouldn’t have to worry about what would become of Jarret, Papa, and Roland. He’d be able to help, encourage, and guide them. Maybe he could pull some weeds and build an enclosure.
Though sadness tinged his mood, Keefe smiled to himself, liking that goal. He could handle that one. He belonged there. Back home. Not here.
One of the brothers climbed to his feet. Keefe realized he’d been kneeling on the floor, off to the side of the altar, facing the tabernacle. Keefe glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes of prayer time. And he still hadn’t considered the other things Brother Giles had asked him to think about. “Make a list of the pros and cons of single life, married life, and the consecrated life. You can write them down if that’s easiest.”
A short time later, while Keefe contemplated this, the other brothers left their pews, genuflected, and padded from the chapel. Moved by their reverence, Keefe remained a moment longer. Then he too slid from the pew and set off to find Brother Giles.
BROTHER GILES STOOD facing the tall bookshelf in the living room, thumbing through an old book with a green cover. He turned as Keefe strode into the room. “Ah there you are.” He ran a hand over his head, flattening an unruly tuft of silver hair.
They returned to the same chairs they’d used earlier, sitting catty-corner from each other, a folder lying on the coffee table.
“Would you like something to drink—water, orange juice?” Brother Giles leaned forward as if ready to bounce back to his feet.
Touched by the brother’s humility and eagerness to serve, Keefe shook his head before he could get the reply out. “No thanks.” He didn’t want to delay things. Now that he believed he didn’t belong here, that he belonged back home, he wanted to get this talk over with. Maybe he’d stay for the rest of the retreat, but maybe he should go. The desire to become a Franciscan had been a dream, but it was time to wake up. He would tell Brother Giles everything: what he liked about the Franciscans, the dysfunctional dynamics of his family, why he wasn’t worthy of this calling, and what led him to believe God had called him in the first place.
As he made his resolve, a tingling sensation washed over him and sorrow came to his heart. He didn’t want to let the dream go, but he was ready for this.
Settling back in his chair, smiling pleasantly, Brother Giles began. “Do you mind me asking what happened yesterday? You had a pretty long drive. First time you’ve left the state on your own, your father said. Did you get lost?”
“Lost? No. I...” Keefe cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the thought of retelling it all. “I... I passed a lady with car trouble. And I went back to help her.” Keefe described the event, holding nothing back, not even his hesitancy to turn around and help her or his worry over arriving late. “I hope she got to her father before... you know.”
“Yes, before her father passes on. We will pray she did. Let’s have the brothers pray for them at Adoration this evening. I’m sure she’s thanking God for you, regardless. You showed her Christ.”
Cheeks burning, Keefe turned away. “I was worried you guys wouldn’t take me seriously because of how late I was.”
One eye narrowing a bit, Brother Giles gave Keefe a studied look. “Who is your Confirmation saint, Keefe?”
“My Confir...” The blood drained from his face. “...Confirmation saint?” The last nail hammered into the coffin of his Franciscan vocation. He’d never received the sacrament of Confirmation. How had this never occurred to him before? His mother had taught them the faith. They’d been baptized, made their First Confessions, and their First Holy Communions. They’d practiced the faith regularly until she died. After that, overwhelmed by grief, maybe feeling betrayed by God, Papa had stopped taking them to Mass. He’d sent them with the Digbys for a while, but even that had fizzled out. They’d missed Confirmation. All three of them: Keefe, Jarret, and Roland.
Keefe took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Now he had even more to tell Brother Giles. On the road trip here, he’d considered how far he was willing to go and what he’d give up. He’d give it all up and go all the way. Not for what he wanted but for what God wanted.
Jesus, I trust you with this.
Encompassed in a bubble of peace, ready to lay it all out, he opened his mouth to speak.
CHAPTER 34
Stomach growling, Jarret spread mayonnaise on a slice of wheat bread. Not wanting to cross paths with Peter again, he’d stayed in his room until long after he, Roland, and Papa had left for the campground. Jarret stacked lettuce, tomato slices, and bacon strips on two pieces of bread. Then he closed each sandwich with another slice of bread and grabbed an unopened bag of chips from the pantry.
“Did you try on those shirts I got you?” Nanny crossed the kitchen, heading for the laundry room. She carried an armful of clothes, probably Roland’s new stuff.
“Yeah, sure.” He liked new clothes so he’d tried them on as soon as Peter and Roland had left. She’d gotten him two pairs of jeans with a comfortable fit, two button-front shirts, and a slim-cut t-shirt. “They fit fine. Thanks for getting them.”
“Oh, that’s good. I’ll need to have them back, soon as you can, so I can wash them.” She paused in the middle of the kitchen.
“But they’re not dirty yet.” Mouth watering, Jarret bowed his head and blessed his food. Unable to wait another second, he took a bite.
“Sure they are. You can’t wear something straight from the manufacturer. They have chemicals and who knows what. I once read a special report about that—”
“Okay, okay. I’ll get them after I eat.” He considered getting a plate and sitting down, but he’d waited too long to eat and his stomach said, “Eat now.”
Still mumbling about the special report she’d heard, Nanny shuffled into the laundry room.
Jarret took another too-large bite, loving the taste of bacon and tomato.
What was he going to do today? He missed Keefe, but he liked that Peter, Roland, and Papa had gone. He’d have the house to himself for the weekend. What was Keefe doing now? Even if he couldn’t call, maybe he could he text.
He slipped his phone from his back pocket to see if Keefe had left him a message. Nope. But someone else had. Kyle?
/> Jarret took another bite and read the message: Yo bro I cannot believe what you did to Chantelle.
Amazed that Kyle knew already, Jarret shook his head. Chewing his sandwich, he typed a reply with his thumbs. Like you never broke up with a girl before?
Kyle’s reply came a few seconds later. Not like that man.
Jarret squinted at his phone. Not like what?
Like what you did last night.
Jarret revisited their date in his mind. Okay, so they’d walked out of a movie, and he took her on a long, boring ride. He’d offered to take her home first.
Who told you about last night?
Everyone knows about it.
How? From who? He’d told no one, not even Keefe. Not Roland. Roland wouldn’t have even guessed it.
Heard it at the campground. You know she is here.
Staring at his phone, Jarret shoved his second sandwich away. Chantelle told Kyle something? No, way. They barely spoke to each other at school. Jarret’s thumb hovered over the keypad. Kyle frustrated him to no end sometimes. Jarret tapped the phone to call Kyle. Forget texting. He needed answers.
“Yo, bro. So, wow, you’re actually calling me.” Voices sounded in the background, laughter and shouting.
“Right. That’s what a phone’s for. Now tell me straight. What supposedly happened last night?”
Kyle laughed. “You were there. You don’t know? You can tell me about it later. I expect details.”
“I don’t get what you’re talking about,” Jarret shouted.
“Okay, chill, brother.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s sulking with her girlfriends. Don’t think her brother knows, but when he does, you’d better watch out. And if Chantelle ends up like Zoe...”
“Wait. You think we... We didn’t do anything.” He hated that he’d just sounded whiny and freaked.
Standing Strong Page 24
