Poor In Spirit

Walt stood at the kitchen counter, stirring the lemonade. Esther had always made it from scratch, but at age 84, he figured he’d earned the right to use frozen concentrate.

Through the window he could see Shane in the backyard trimming the hedge, and hear the electric motor.

Shane was such a good kid. He’d been over every day for the last week to do yard work, and then to stay for lemonade and a chat.

Walt loved these chats. He'd never been a Dad, but at least he had a chance to play at Grampa.

Conversation was the nectar of Walt’s existence. He lived for conversation. Always had. Which was good because he’d always, always been someone who people felt they could talk to. There seemed to just be something in him that people saw as warm and strong and honest and true even though Walt had never found it in the mirror.

Strange.

He’d been the one his friends would tell their troubles to, ask for advice. Listen when he offered it. Even though he’d been just as young and stupid as they were.

But at Shane’s age, he’d been Walt who would have the answer. Walt who would figure it out. Or at the very least, care enough to listen to all the teenage angst and fears of a generation who knew they were headed for war.

Nearly ¾ of a century later, standing alone in his kitchen, he could only smile. Smile at the young fool who thought that if they all thought so, it must be true.

Maybe that was what he recognized in Shane. A bit of that young, loving, too strong for his own good fool. Maybe that was why God had brought them together. Because the old fool and the young fool needed each other.

Then the war came, in earnest, and Walt and many of his friends had signed up. After training he’d been sent to Italy. His company had fought their best and won some and lost some. Lost too much. And the guys in his unit had dubbed him ‘the vicar’. They needed a comfort, a shoulder, a sounding board and Walt was there for them. He went on being the one people leaned on. Being strong and drawing whatever strength he could find in his private moments, praying and reading his Bible. And God had brought him through. Spirit intact and knowing what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

And so, Walt found himself, a little surprised, an Anglican priest. What a laugh. 60 years of looking after everyone’s problems, listening to their struggles, their questions, sharing their injustices.

Shortly after he was ordained, he’d met Esther.

He’d been eating alone in a diner. He was tucked into a booth and she walked in with a couple of friends and sat down at the counter. She had those big soft blonde Lana Turner curls lying across her neck. There was a mirror on the wall in front of her and he remembered shifting his bum over a bit so he could see her reflection. She was so beautiful. Their eyes met once or twice in the mirror. The first time she smiled. The second time she’d looked a little uncomfortable. She’d whispered to her friend, who’d turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye. That was when he’d realized he was wearing his collar and she thought he was up to something he shouldn’t be. He’d walked up behind her and the three girls had spun on their stools, on guard and at attention.

His first words to her were, “I’m Anglican. I’m allowed to flirt.” 

She’d laughed. “Nice to meet you, Anglican. I’m Esther.”

It was over a year before they’d married. He wasn’t making much money and she was in teachers’ college. But finally they’d settled in to the vicarage at St. Stephen’s and she was teaching and he was pastoring.

He’d been unspeakably happy. He loved his work. Working alongside God - teaching, talking to people, listening. He loved the way they trusted him and he loved being trustworthy. He loved the way their faces would relax when he said just the right thing at just the right time, when he showed them the perfect scripture for their problem. How glad they were to see him arrive when there was trouble, knowing he’d be able to make things better. How much it meant to them when he told them that God would never give them more than they could handle and if he’d allowed this pain to come into their lives, it was because he knew they could handle it.

And not because he had an ego, either. He genuinely loved these people and loved Jesus and knew that he was doing what Jesus would. Esther was wonderful. Jesus was wonderful. Life was wonderful.

Until they’d lost Faith.

That was the name they gave her, too small to open her eyes, and never having heard her own name.

It had been in the winter. They couldn’t even bury her properly. There wasn’t even a funeral. After the war, after so much death, people seemed unwilling observe the passing of someone who hadn’t even been born.

So they’d grieved privately, spending hours in each others’ arms. Saying nothing.

Because, for the first time in his life, Walt had had nothing to say. No answers, no strength. Praying was like talking to the floor. He’d take out his Bible and read the verses he’d read to so many others in the past, verses that comforted them, and lifted their heads. But the words seemed dead.

He was a man who’d fought and killed and won through in the worst war the world could remember, only to be brought down by a tiny girl he’d never even seen or held.

He was 30 years old. A reverend. Loving God, loved by him. He’d spent his whole life telling people about God’s love and goodness. Giving them hope, a reason to get up again tomorrow morning, being strong, being a tower, an arm to lean on, and unbending back.

And suddenly he was helpless.

God had given them more than they could handle and the shock of that alone was more than Walt and Esther could process.

Walt realized he’d been stirring the lemonade for a while now and he could probably stop. He put the jug in the fridge, and reached for a couple of glasses in the cupboard.

Shane was nearly at the end of the hedge.

Walt and Esther had retired into the neighbourhood 7 years ago and right away they’d noticed the little boy playing in his yard down the block. They’d drive out past Tony and Meg’s house and Shane would be there, crouched down behind the hedge, hands clasped like James Bond holding a revolver. Or leaping out from behind a tree wielding a stick sword against a dragon.

Then one time he’d been sitting alone between the hedge and the maple tree, just skygazing. That was the end of the secret agent. And the knight in shining armour. When they drove by, and when Walt stood in his front window, he’d often see young Shane alone, with a stack of comic books, or one of those little game things or just thinking.

Then came the winter that Shane had turned up on their front step wanting to shovel the driveway and they’d invited him in for hot chocolate.

Shane loved to talk. About school, hockey, his future career as a rock star. He helped them set up their computer and get the internet working. One time he’d brought his guitar and sung them a song. Something about a club. None of the 3 had ever been to a club, but Esther said it was wonderful.

There was only one thing he wouldn’t talk about. Every time they’d ask him “How’s your dad?”, he’d answer, “Fine.”

“How’s your mom?”, “Fine.”

It was months before he knew them well enough for it to all come out. His parents weren’t fine at all and Shane didn’t know what to do. He wanted to fix things. Wanted them to be happy again and he’d done everything he could think of. He’d been the best kid he could be, tried to figure out what had gone wrong and how to get it back. He’d done his best not to put any demands on them. To be no trouble, to look after himself, to be strong. To keep his troubles to himself. So they wouldn’t worry about him.

When he’d said everything he could say, and petered out into “Ya know?”, Walt and Esther had looked at each other and nodded and said that yes, they knew.

They knew what it was to try to be strong. To not be any trouble. To be good and they knew that it didn’t work and that it would kill you in the end.

After they’d lost Faith, they’d both pulled themselves together and put on their happy-pastor-and-his-wife faces and gone on being what they’d been before and only the two of them knew that they weren’t. Only they knew that God had deserted them and they were alone in the universe and just didn’t know how to jump off the train they were on.

Until one night, Walt couldn’t sleep. He was angry. Furious. He was going to have it out with God. He went next door to the church and let himself in.

He stood in the dark, in his pyjamas and slippers and raised his fists and shouted at God. Called him names and used language he hadn’t used since he was in the army. All the anger and grief and pain and betrayal echoed off the walls and the ceiling and the stained glass windows.

The windows. Twenty of them. Pictures from the life of Christ.

One was catching the light from the street lamps and when Walt ran out of obscenities to shout and ran out of breath and slumped down into a pew, it caught his eye. He stared at it like he’d never seen it before. It leapt from its frame and into Walt’s heart.

At the top, it said, “Christ falls under the cross”. At the bottom, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Walt could still remember the feeling in his arms and legs as he sat there, words filling his mind, words from somewhere else. He could still remember the silent voice and the warmth and the peace.

“Walt, when I fell under that cross, it was because it was more than I could handle. Sometimes life’s like that. I know. I’ve been there. I know your heart is broken. I know you’ve lost more than you ever thought you’d even want. But, dear child, you’ve lost something else. You’ve lost your understanding that even though I gave you a gift for guiding others, it’s not your job to have the answers. It’s your job to know that I am the answer. You won’t understand for a long time yet. But you will in the end. You can't handle it. Not alone. You're not supposed to. Trust me and know that my heart is broken, too.

"Let's be broken hearted for each other.”

And then the silent voice was gone. His heart was quiet. Still hurting, but quiet. And he realized that for the first time in years, he was crying.

Tears of grief for the Faith that he’d lost. Tears of joy for the faith he’d almost lost.

Tears of gratitude for Esther and Jesus and even for life.

As soon as his legs would work again, he’d walked down the aisle and locked the door behind him. And Walt had gone home. To Esther and life. And Jesus.

He heard the electric trimmer turn off. He wiped his eyes with his hankie and took a sip of water to ease the tightness in his throat.

He stepped out on the back porch with the tray of lemonade and cookies as Shane came up the steps and Walt smiled at his adopted grandson, and settled in for a chat.


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