Words the old priest heard daily through the many seasons of his calling,
the many seasons. It was midnight and silence covered Father DiAngelo like a shroud,
an invisible burden tightly binding him. "Dios mío, ¿dónde estás? Why do you hide from me?" How could he inspire others when his own soul was weary,
his prayers dry as stone? How could he reach the children of light,
when he could only see the darkness of the world?
But it was for this he had been chosen, had been called.
In days long passed, the visions of glory and Christ were clear.
The ancient books inspiring his heart and soul, the mystics,
the great saints and martyrs cried out wisdom from the ages.
Then he had longed for the solitude of prayer and isolation,
had dreamed of living a stoic life dedicated to the kingdom of God.
Had dreamed of giving all that he was, bearing each cross the Almighty laid upon his shoulders.
But the years, and the reality of life crushed upon him mercilessly. The ancient books gathered dust, the songs of the mystics faded, and the holy army of souls he had called upon for strength became silent. God had wanted something other of the old priest, desired more than intellect and the blessing of solitude, desired humility. And through the years, and the thousand passing souls, the good priest did his duty. Fulfilled his calling, in love, and in service. There would be no raising to the altar for Father DiAngelo, no holy martyr's death, but only the reward given from God to those few faithful souls who trudge on through the muck and mire of life, searching ever for illumination and consolation, receiving little of either. The soldiers of Christ. Fighting tirelessly the battles of mediocrity, giving life's blood on the fields of perseverance, humility, and love.
He sipped his tea. Opened his breviary and began to recite the psalms. There were no angels speaking to him, no saints whispering inspiration. But the mercy of God, which does not come often in burning bushes, great visions, or mystical recollections, came to him all the same, came to old Father DiAngelo, in the ancient prayers of David, in the tender silence, and in a sweet, hot cup of tea at the end of another long day.
"Deo Gratias," he whispered in the old tongue. "Fiat voluntas tua."
Thank you God. Thy will be done."
