by Marian Unn
Chapter 9
As mass came to its end I pulled Father Bart aside. “Father,” I began, pausing for a moment. “Yes?” he asked calmly, though his eyes were eager, thirsting for whatever words I was about to speak. It was clear that he had been awaiting this day for a long time, the day that I would call on him like this.
“Father, I will tell you now, what I should have long ago. It is about the reason I leave so ‘pained’ as you all say.” He held his breath and gestured for me to continue “Father I am pained by my son. He has become a horrible man. Day after day, I see him grow more and more wicked. With the passing of time, I have come to discover that I myself am the instigator of this wickedness. I can do nothing for my boy. I can neither chase away his darkness, nor go against his wishes, for the power his wickedness has given him is great. As my wisdom continues to be lacking, the evil within him continues to grow. I fail to have both the words and the strength necessary to teach or change him. I cannot console him, the one thing he asks of me, for my fear keeps me at a distance. I no longer know how to talk to him properly without trembling, much less turn him from his wicked ways.”
With a gentle smile, he patted my arm, “You must pray for your son often then?” he asked kindly. I nodded to him. “Every moment, ” I whispered, grasping the cross under my clothing, as I always did when the pain struck me. “What is it that you pray for, may I ask? If it is not too personal that is. You have no obligation to-”
“It is alright, Father,” I stopped him. “If you could somehow come to an idea of how to cure him of his evilness, by my telling you my feeble prayers, then I would gladly tell you them all!”
“Go on,” he smiled. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to phrase my words so that he would not discover who my son, or I, for that matter, truly was.
“I pray that he may return to how he once was as a child. He was a very good child. I remember this. I ask God to have mercy on him, to take all his sins away. When I see him, and am distressed by his cruelty to others, I beg God to help him. I beg God to save him and -Now, I know this sounds awful, but I ask God to take him into His kingdom. I would wish he had been taken from me as a babe and raised by the angels, for they would not have allowed him to turn out as he did. I am a cruel mother to think such thoughts, I know. Yet I cannot help but believe that death in innocence is better than life in wickedness. For we both know, a life lived in evil leads only to an eternity in evil, and that is what I truly fear most for him. And so I plead with God, I desperately beg him not to let my poor child slip any farther into the darkness! For the thought that he would die with the sins he now bears on his soul, I cannot— I cannot think of—” I placed my hand to my mouth, suppressing the violent wail that thrashed alive within me. “He has hurt so many. So very many!” My verbal cries were subdued, but no motion could stop the physical tears from falling.
“Please pardon me, Father. For some reason I can speak no more.” Grasping my wailing heart, I bowed to the priest. “Please excuse my rude behavior. I am sorry for bothering you.”
About to turn from him, the priest snatched my wrist right where Merek had grasped it. Slapping his hand away, I held my throbbing wrist.
“I am terribly sorry!” we both cried. I shook my head in apology, “Please forgive such strange behavior, Father!”
His eyebrows tipped upwards, “Oh, little lamb!” he called me. “Oh, my dear sheep, what a terrible Shepherd am I! I am ashamed to say I acted so on purpose. At communion, I saw your bruises as your sleeve slipped, and I just could not have you leave without me addressing them. I am the one in need of forgiveness, not you, little lamb, no not you.”
His gentle eyes tried to search my darkened features for some kind of recognition that I had forgiven him. I knew he could not see my facial features, and so I nodded. He then continued, “Even a sinner like me can see you suffer from your son’s errors. But it is through no fault of your own, dear child. You are not the cause of your son’s sins. Though you may blame yourself for it, it is clear to all that no such thing could be your fault!”
“Your words are kind, Father, but it is my responsibility that my son is the way he is. I raised the boy and taught him wrongly. I did not use the right words when teaching him; and now he not only denies God, he detests him.”
“Oh, dear lamb!” he cried out once again. “Dear lamb, you are so innocent and pure. I have seen it in the way you speak and your actions here. You always donate a large quantity of money and the finest of foods for the poor. You hide your face, but your love shines through as you sing the loudest and kneel the longest. Listen now to me, dear child. He hears your prayers! They have reached His ears and your son changes not for a reason! For a purpose! I am but a foolish sinner, and myself do not understand why it is you continue to suffer so for your son’s wrongs. But you will be rewarded in heaven for your sufferings now. So do not give up hope! Do not give up faith! That is what the devil wants! That is what he wishes! Continue to pray for your son, continue to love and care for him and perhaps he will change. But know that if he does not, it is no fault of your own. It was his own decision to go against God and so he will be the one to pay. And though I know these words are dreadful to a mother’s ears, you must simply have faith that God has not willed this. He has allowed this to happen for a reason. Do not let the devil fool you for he is like the trickster King of this land. God bless his sinful soul, as venomous as it is. He is poisoning the people with his words, sucking them dry of hope and faith with his pretty speeches. Do not fall to them! Do not fall to the devil!”
“Oh, Father, I will continue to pray. But I cannot rest at night knowing my own son is to befall the same fate as so many other vicious and venomous men. I will continue to pray for him. Will you please do the same?”
“Of course!” he bellowed confidently, his breath short from his speech. I nodded to him in courtesy for his advice, though his words only brought me more pain. It stung every time I heard my son compared to the embodiment of evil itself, to such a detestable creature. But I had unwittingly grown accustomed to it. What a horrible thing it is for a mother to have grown accustomed to hearing one’s own child called the devil.
“One more thing,” he said, before I walked from the shop. I turned to him one last time, exhausted by his talk. “You will one day be unafraid to show us your face. I know it!” Smiling at him, I nodded for, hopefully, the last time. I was desperate to leave.
I allowed the words I would not say to surface to the forefront of my consciousness. ‘I will show you who I am when you meet my son. For no words will be there left to say when you see who my awful, cruel, devil of a son is.’
