The Praying Well

Prologue i Sunday, August 5th, 1945 Within the small cramped office of La Iglesa de el Milagro, the church's founder Father Javier Sandoval de Christo sat relaxed at a small desk cluttered with envelopes and letters along with a wooden box full of papers and personal trinkets. The Father shuffled through the personal items, bringing out a letter here and a letter there from his beloved ark. As he read through the prayers, words of admiration, and letters of thanks from his parishioners, he realized the time had quickly passed since he made his way here from the deserts of central Mexico -- even quicker than he anticipated. He held out a letter from one of his most recent devoted followers, Mrs. Villaches, one of about two hundred and fifty or so souls that made it to his mass each and every week. He held the tattered paper close to his face to make out the words, but in reality, he could recite most of it from memory as it was one of the dear letters he read over and over in the lonely years here at the church. The letters (and numbers and everything else for that matter) appeared blurry to the Father, his eyesight was getting to the point of becoming a nuisance. However, just like everything else on his ancient body, it was just another mechanical system breaking down with the passage of time. It got to the point where on occasion he couldn't make out the faces on the pews during Sunday mass, though that hardly mattered, as the same people sat in the same seats each and every week since the inception of the church -- almost three years prior. For now though, the ailments he felt from this weary body were kept secret from his flock, as the shepherd cannot let down his guard when guiding the sheep. The letter he picked up from his desk was written in ink, in an elegant cursive only a careful woman's hand can create. He really didn't know why he cared to read these old letters -- he received so many of them -- but these were his people, they admired him and perhaps loved him. And although he had no close relationships with any of the parishioners, they felt a close kinship with him. To him it was like a father and his children – never as equals. They obeyed his wishes without question – at least on Sundays -- as he never did see anyone outside of mass. That is the way he kept it, living a lonely and solemn life in the church. No need to complicate things while he was here. The father put the letter down inside the box and closed the lid. He laid his hand on top of it for a second, as if having second thoughts about closing it off, then he let go. He leaned back in his chair and it gave out a loud creak as he leaned his considerable weight upon it. He lifted his arthritic leg on the table with some effort and a few grunts and leaned back with his hands folded behind his head. He winced as the prickly vibrations from his propped limb made their way through his body all the way up to his fingertips, like small shocks of static electricity dancing through his muscles. Goddamn body was failing, eyesight, legs, what was next? The Father looked up at the ceiling -- a gold colored leaf he had installed himself -- and closed his eyes. Oh well, it wouldn’t be long now, he thought. He was alone in the church, in the quiet of the Sunday morning, alone but with the company of wind and rain vigorously shaking his beloved structure to its roots. The turbulence outside was powerful, almost as it if were demonstrating the power of nature on this very day, his important day, to those who question it. And he expected nothing less. Mrs. Sarah Villaches, who sat in the second row of the right section each and every Sunday for the past three years had written the letter. She always sat with her husband Peter, a silver haired gentlemen -- and more recently with their son, young Peter Jr. who had returned from the war abroad. The letter had been written almost two years prior, and with it, she had brought a basket of gifts for the Father. While he received it with a smile at first, he let her know in a very direct manner that it was inappropriate for her to interact with him on a personal level. That during Sunday mass; all was worship and prayer, nothing more. He smiled to himself as he thought of that basket, with the bottle of red wine, and a loaf of rye bread that she no doubt baked herself. It still sat in the back room, along with the others. Exactly as he had received it, except the bread was a grey rock now. He pictured her letter in his mind and could envision the words with clarity: Dear Father Sandoval de Christo, I know you are a busy man, and my husband Peter told me not to write to you as it may be inappropriate, but I must tell you how we feel. We all know you are serious about your privacy, but I must let you know how thankful my family and I are to you, and how we owe you everything! I know I cannot discuss this with you in person, so I am hoping you read this. Thank you!, Thank you! Thank you for bringing this church here to our little neighborhood, We all find it very comforting to know that there is a place -- a real place of miracles! In this time of war, it is exactly what we need -- a place to pray and be heard! Since you've arrived, our lives have been filled with hope -- eternal hope, and we thank you. But my true thanks is a selfish one, thank you for bringing our young son Peter Jr. back from the war in one piece. I knew that my prayers would be answered, but I also know that you played an important part in that -- to get my message to the Lord directly. Now my son Peter is at home, the family is at home and we are utterly and eternally grateful! Thank you, and I will thank you at each and every mass I attend each Sunday in my prayers. Bless you, Mrs. Sarah Villaches P.S. During your homily, I can almost feel the power of God working through me, that is how strong your message and your divine strength is -- that is correct -- your divine strength. We all wonder that with all of the miracles you've brought to us, that you are not merely the messenger, or the shepherd, but the creator of the miracles. "Creator of Miracles." That is what Sarah Villaches had written -- the same thing that hundreds or thousands had written before. Not the messenger, but the creator. That’s what he lived for, the admiration and love coming direct from the soul of the people. These folks came to see him because they themselves were "selfish" as Sarah had written. They wanted something from him and if he could help, he would help, God willing -- so to say. Then why couldn't he be selfish as well? That was always the question, and has been for as long as he remembered. Couldn't he ask for something in return from those who attended his mass and sat in his pews and insisted that they are only here to serve the Lord (at least to themselves)? He didn’t need a basket of bread or cheap wine, no that's not what he needed. Not a knitted blanket or quilt, or even vases of white and yellow flowers picked from the garden as he had received so many times. No, that wasn’t enough. He needed their love, their belief, and their devotion. Simple little pleasures that folks can easily part with during devastating times like these -- wartime. The rain pattered on the windows harder now, the wind shifting directions and slamming the stained glass windows on the other side of the structure now. The image on the window of the north side of the church, whose stained glass normally shown in brightly colored reds and blues and inspired awe in the visitors each week, was now a dull and lifeless gray against the backdrop of the storm outside. Soon, very soon on this Sunday morning, cold wet weather or not, the activity would be great. The parishioners would flock to the church as they did every Sunday, except on this day it would be a double packed house. With just one mass, there would be standing room only he joked to himself. He had invited all of his parishioners to this one congregation. One last congregation. But of course they couldn't know it would be the last. He knew his people eagerly came to him as if the man Jesus himself were giving the homily and taking names after. They wanted, wanted, and wanted. He gave and gave and gave. That was the beauty of it all -- like the perfect balance on a child's teeter tooter -- with him at one end and the parishioners on the other. Except today, he would abruptly jump off of his end. The Father shifted his weight forward and groaned again in the process. He stood from his chair and reached into his front church to pull out the chain that hung around his neck. The chain was gold with a peculiarly shaped crucifix attached to it. He dangled it in front of his face, high up and level with his eyes as if inspecting it. The precious gold shone brightly, like sparkling diamonds at a jeweler’s counter. The chain was a solid rope, no links, nothing holding it together except a snake of pure metal. The cross, itself carved of the same pure gold, was plain, with no adornment of Jesus Christ nailed in remembrance. Instead, each of the four points ended in a graduated point – curving ever so slightly to the side. He carefully lifted it over his clothes, keeping it visible over his black suit jacket, black shirt and collar. After a moment he walked out of the narrow door of the office and into the main church and looked upon his creation: He peered up into high arches of the ceiling, standing in awe at the thick timbers of the rafters. He had a hand in every part, from leveling those behemoth beams to staining the intricate details on the beautifully colored windows. Everything had to be perfect. In this part of Chicago, on the near south side of the city, Catholicism was the religion of choice. Though his church followed no specific religious order, Father Sandoval fashioned his little church house in the same mold as some of the more ornate Catholic churches dotting the area. This was a necessity, as it gave a familiar feeling to those who chose to leave their old faiths behind and join his little parish. With the war going on in Europe, the Great War as it had become known; Father Sandoval easily made his name here in this bustling neighborhood on the south side. Most families had much to worry about and much to pray about in these trying times -- with news of their dying sons flying across the ocean with increasing regularity, everyone was affected by tragedy. Even the staunchest old fool who never gave a thought to a Sunday prayer now came to Father Sandoval's church as regular as the sunrise. And though he was a foreigner from a foreign land, the people eventually welcomed him and his church to their neighborhood, to their lives, and ultimately into their intimate prayers. The grandfather clock in his office rang out with an empty gong; he turned to look at it. Eight o'clock. One more hour and it would begin -- and begin to end. He made his way up the long aisle of pews towards the double oak doors, limping lazily along the marble tile floor. This body had forsaken him and was giving out before his eyes. He couldn't believe how fast it was happening now but he just needed it to give him a little bit more. When he finally made it to the front, he caught his breath and leaned against the door. He peered outside through the window secretly as he had often done on past Sundays, admiring the flock from a distance. The sight outside was wonderful to the Father, but not something that surprised him in the least. The parishioners stood outside braving the torrent of rain just beyond the locked black iron gates that separated the world from his abode. The people stood out on the sidewalk quietly watching and waiting, unbothered by the weather. The large crowd was gathered around the front gate then trailed off on the sidewalk to the north and to the south. As he watched with fascination, the downpour precluded him from seeing individuals – all he could make out was the mass of dark haunches of hundreds of bodies awaiting him underneath a canopy of umbrellas. Let them wait, he thought. Soon enough they would be allowed to enter – and this last mass would be memorable. He smirked at the thought. Suddenly, a heavy explosion of thunder struck close by, loud enough to cause a ringing in his old ears. He felt the reverberations through the floor and they shook him to his core. He took another peak outside: The crowd unaltered, unbothered by the ridiculous downpour and the obvious danger of the lightning from the worsening skies. At this he laughed aloud – all to himself in the echoes of the empty church. The time was now approaching for this final congregation. And at exactly 8:30am, like on all Sundays these past three years, he would unlock the gates to let the flood in. Though on this particular morning, he would have loved to see them continue to soak in their good Sunday clothes, but timeliness was everything. After admiring them for several more minutes, he unlatched the three locks on the door -- each requiring a key from the inside, and unhooked the thick wooden bar that ran across the span of the opening. He pulled open the doors, which swung into the church, and a cool rush of wind entered the large room immediately, blowing droplets of fine mist onto his face. As he stepped outside onto the threshold, the sky that opened to him was a dark and foreboding gray, yet flashes of light entered through thinning sections of clouds teasing of what could be on this summer morning. He held up the large key ring as he walked, the crowd shuffling in their spaces, awaiting the dam to break. The lock on the gate gave a loud click and the chain fell to the ground like a snake slithering down a tree. Father Sandoval gently eased the gate open and greeted the crowd enthusiastically. "Good morning, welcome my dear friends! Please come into my home -- your home, and make yourself mercifully comfortable! Bien Dia, Amigos!" With this the crowd stormed in, wet and quick, but orderly nonetheless. Two hundred and fifty parishioners all told is what the Father expected, and is what he got, he was sure. He stepped to the side on the edge of the walkway to let the mob of individuals and families proceed. Every few moments he held up his hand to wave and give shout of "good morning", but got nothing in return. That was what was expected. After all, they didn't come here for friendship -- there was business to tend to, no matter if it were the business of faith. The rain was still coming down by the bucketful, but he didn't mind it, as the rain was somehow soothing in its torment. As the crowd rushed by, he stood there proudly – admiring his work here in the city. Admittedly he would miss it very much. He recognized every single face that passed – he knew them even as they walked head down covered under hats and umbrellas. Each soul had their own story, their own need; and each of them had a common thread amongst others: Their prayers were answered at some point or another. That’s what kept them coming back. Each and every one of them took the walk through the courtyard at some point in time -- that was the requirement. Otherwise they would surely not be here today. While the crowd was making swift progress through the gates and into the church, Father Sandoval noticed one body jutting stationary in the stream, like a stone in the river bed. The man stood there, staring in the Father’s direction, wearing no headgear nor donning an umbrella. The old man stood his ground though he was repeatedly battered and pushed by the mob trying to make their way in. The Father instantly knew exactly who it was. A moment later, the man was face first on the ground. He had been pushed onto the concrete by the fierce procession behind him and now struggled to pick himself up from the wet concrete. The crowd continued to rush in over him -- stepping over as if he were a part of the landscape. No one tried to help, no one stopped to check if the man was hurt. The Father looked down on the man lying on the ground and shook his head in disgust. The rain poured over him while the grey skies darkened the scene even further. He walked towards the man and reached his arm out to help, but the man sprung up quickly himself, leaning back into the crowd away from the Father. The man, Mr. Johnson, now stood there with his head down, appearing as a child in the principal’s office, his hands in his pockets, his legs melded together, avoiding all eye contact with the Priest. But as he saw Father Sandoval take another step towards him, he reached back to his hind pocket. In an instant, like the very lighting above them, Father Sandoval grabbed the man's arm from the elbow as tightly as his old muscles would allow and whispered into Mr. Johnson’s ear, "Hold that thought." he said. Then let him go. Mr. Johnson jumped back into the crowd as quick as a wink and made his way into the church. That foolish old man, thought Father Sandoval. His lack of courage was evident when they first met a year ago and now it continued through today. But Father Sandoval was still intrigued by this challenge, by this game from Mr. Johnson. He knew this moment had to come at some point, but on this very day! That was even more delightful! That was one of the reasons he even had the inkling to let Mr. Johnson attend his mass after what happened the previous summer. That’s precisely when Mr. Johnson had begun attending mass It wasn't a good first meeting with the man and his wife – at least for them, but the Father remembered fondly. The Johnsons were a very strong religious couple who were well liked with the neighbors. They held their heads up high, especially with the war raging on in Europe and Asia. The Johnson’s ultimate sacrifice – sending their son into the war – was always the first topic of conversation at every gathering. Whether it was an official event supporting the troop efforts at home, or a less formal event such as bumping into a neighbor at the local grocery store, her son’s status (and with it, her status) was the first and foremost topic of conversation. The Johnsons themselves made their weekly vigils at church very apparent and public, and for their efforts received heartfelt gratitude from fellow parents whose sons might have been too young or too old to go off into war. At last contact, their son had written his parents from one of Navy ships heading for the islands of Japan. He had written proudly, anticipating that the battles would be fierce, and that it would be difficult to fight in enemy territory, but nonetheless he felt they would be victorious. For Mrs. Johnson, the very thought of a new, non-Catholic church in her very neighborhood was itself blasphemy. The Johnsons had heard of this new church, but had not made the effort yet to come around and see it for themselves. Mrs. Johnson was very curious indeed, as many interesting rumors went around the wives clubs as quickly as the news of the war did. Many people spoke about it, but most spoke about it under their breath or in the secrecy of their home. Even within her close knit circle of friends, there was an overall reluctance to discuss any matter associated with the new church. And a growing consensus among them was that the new church was not of the Lord, but of something different…something black. This intrigued her even more. She had not spoken directly with any actual parishioners of the new church, although she knew many. Once her acquaintances left their former spiritual residence, and her current one – Blessed Agnes Church, for the La Iglesa de el Milagro she refused to acknowledge them as friends. But the rumors were there nonetheless, out in the open for all to heed and to believe. Most were circulations of information from second or third party sources, simple statements with no meat; none of the juicy details she desired. The most promising piece of information, to prove that the church was a fraud and run by a con man, was that the church held a special place in its heart – somewhere in the lower level. This place had magical powers she had heard, where wishes, or prayers were answered for those who sought them out. Mrs. Johnson laughed at this and thought nothing more of it. How absurd, she had said. How dare those people take the name of the lord to such a blasphemous level, she had said. The stress of war had gotten the better of these cast aways – and they went scurrying like common rodents trying to find another hole in the wall for cover. They deserved to be cut off from her polite society. But there were other things that concerned her as well – other more real threats to her social status. Being the upstanding citizen that she was, she was offended that the new church was a very private place, and that no new parishioners were allowed in – not even the Johnsons. And that just would not do. Not in her neighborhood. The church was a place of God, not for some circus freak show. She decided to check it out for herself. So on one Sunday in the midst of August, Mrs. Johnson, along with her husband, found their way to the doorstep of their collective fates.