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| Vespers, the evening prayer, Chalk by Kate Lollio |
"Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina." Father Toby's voice boomed the first line of Vespers into the cold air, each syllable an explosion of frost. It was a trick the Reverend O'Flaherty had taught him, a way of focusing on something you knew in a time of crisis. "You truly do have an exquisite singing voice, Tobias," he had said, waving a trembling finger back and forth as though conducting some sort of nightmarish orchestra. "Just try to stay with the beat."
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto." The whole thing had seemed absurd at the time, but now, in his own time of crisis, he clinged to it desperately. He loved singing in Latin, and he had done it incessantly. Even as a boy, the liturgical language had fascinated him. His parents had known early on that he was bound for the clergy. It was as though the soaring verses transcended time and space, and took one to a place where angels sang, bathed in colored light. The suffering could never reach that place, and God's presence was always near. Now there was only this profound sense of abandonment.
He had asked the Reverend which one of the liturgies to sing. The man had simply smiled and answered, "Oh, any one will do." Father Toby wiped the dirt from the face of his watch. Evening was upon them.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
"Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum." He sang louder now, as if each word were a plea, even a challenge to God. If he could only sing loud enough, perhaps God would hear him over all the madness, and really return the ones he'd lost. Every part of him longed to see the lame actually walk, and the blind actually see. He needed it now, as though his very sanity hinged on the possibility of the miraculous.
Thump, thump.
What happens when those miracles never come? What happens when all around you are the lame, the blind, and the dying? When they are reaching out to you, but you have nothing left to give? What do you do when the grief and the loss take root, and your soul cries out for rescue? Why then the loneliness, and the silence? The questions were relentless, and robbed Father Toby of what little rest there was to find here. Every time he closed his eyes, the grain fields of Iowa turned to churned up mud. Every time he thought of the Mass, the beautiful faces of his parishioners melted away, replaced by the faces of boys with hollow eyes.
thump, thump.
His hands trembled like Reverend O'Flaherty's, and he remembered the old man's answer. "Whatever else is there to do, Tobias? You sing. Sing angry, sing bitter, but never stop singing. Sing about God's goodness when your world's gone bad. Sing about love and life in the midst of hatred and death. Sing of God's peace even as chaos erupts. Pray every day as though the Almighty could arrive just then, and should he not, for heaven's sake man, get out there and do his work until he comes!"
"Amen."
Thump.
So Father Toby sang out from no man's land. As he sang, his soul cried out from the wilderness.
"Alleluia."
Thump, THUMP!
The shells pounded their rhythm; the final shot fell close. He felt the great heave, as though his chest would turn inside out, and his eardrums would burst. He drew his knees to his chest, tightly gathering as much of himself as possible beneath the meager protection of his helmet, and waited for the inevitable shower of earth and wood, metal and gore. The Hunn artillerymen were making the most of their last barrage of the afternoon, and he certainly didn't envy the boys of C Company, currently being raked by cannon fire a couple of hundred yards away.
The ringing in his ears had only just begun to clear when he saw a figure emerge from the smoke, and stumble out alone into no man's land. He had no rifle or helmet, and he was completely covered in mud. Father Toby watched in horror as the man vanished into a shell crater, only to reemerge from the other edge and continue towards the middle of the killing field. Father Toby had been pinned down there all day, and he began waving a timid hand, trying to get the man's attention, while hoping to avoid drawing fire himself. The overturned carriage he sat against was really no cover at all. A well-placed volley of rifle fire could have torn it to bits at any moment.
He cringed at a rifle shot, followed by another, dull pops in the wake of the ear-splitting salvo. A small plume of dirt erupted at the man's feet as he continued aimlessly, oblivious to his surroundings. "Run!" Father Toby shouted, "Run, man, go back!" The man stopped suddenly and looked in Father Toby's directions who was now waving frantically. "Run! Run, man, or get d...."
A rifle shot rang out. The man suddenly jerked, as though punched by some invisible hand, and collapsed into a motionless heap in the mud. Father Toby gasped, exhaling another explosion of frost as he dropped back against the carriage. He again drew his knees to his chest, and buried his face between them. One boy too many, and the last strings began to unravel. Father Toby rocked himself softly, as his tears mixed with French mud.
Movement caught his attention; the heap in the mud was beginning to stir. The man slowly rolled himself over, and reached out a hand above him, grasping at something only he could see. Father Toby's heart began to pound, but he never hesitated. There, in the midst of his own crisis, as the world crumbled around him, he fell back on what he knew best, his calling....God's work. Out there a man lay wounded, perhaps dying. Out there in the open, a man's soul stood at the precipice of eternity, and he was all alone.
Father Toby clenched his rosary tightly as he crawled out into no man's land, its crucifix hanging from his dirty fist, inches from his face as he crept forward on his elbows. The distance seemed overwhelming, but every time he raised his head to check his bearings, there was Jesus, suffering on the Cross. It was then that he remembered that all of the suffering, the pain and loss, were not separating him from God, they were drawing him closer.
Thump, thump, thump, thump
Every scrape and cut became a privilege as he dragged himself across the ground. Each drop of blood a rose for the Blessed Mother, and his broken heart an offering at the foot of the Cross. It was Christ at the edge of every shell hole. It was Christ in front of every wire obstacle. It was Christ guiding him forward. Father Toby prayed as he crawled, and the loneliness vanished as he felt God join him the mud.
"Alleluia."
Thump, THUMP!
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| 1916 U.S. Army issued Rosary |
"O Lord, make haste to help me. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen. Alleluia."- From Vespers, the evening prayer.
- From May of 1917 - November 1918, 2,300 American clergymen served as Chaplains in the American Expeditionary Force during World War 1. Father Tobias is my work of fiction, the Reverend O'Flaherty is not. Colman O'Flaherty was an Irish born American, ordained by the Roman Catholic Church in Sioux Falls, Iowa in 1909. He was killed while ministering to the wounded and dying in an artillery barrage on October 3, 1918, one month before the war's end. He didn't carry a rifle, only a sword of the Spirit, still he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions in combat.
This story is dedicated to the Payne family.
Ex
