THE VOICE OF THE WIND

Fate uncertainly commits our lives to many different roads. Some of these roads are high and narrow, on which a single misstep invites unimaginable peril. Some roads confuse, others reveal. Some twist down through dark valleys beside joyful streams which empty unexpectedly into lakes of despair. But to my mind the hardest roads to travel are those which run straight and even through empty, level fields beneath cloudless skies.

These straight roads are a burden on the heart, which for want of anguish never knows the joy of being released from it. Traveling on them, the body may be fed but the soul is starved. There the spirit yearns for nothing more than the faintest scent of an ocean or the shallow arc of a low hill to break the stark, level horizon.

It was on such a road as this which I, a promising student, found myself upon entering the Academy. From an early age I had been considered a sort of prodigy. Whatever the discipline, I had always been first in my class. In fact, my studies usually took me beyond the limits of those who taught me.

Yet one thing was missing. And to me it was the most important of all things. I knew of, in fact had even studied, that invisible power which fills the voids inside men and makes life for them more than just the labor of living. There are many names for this power, but most men simply call it God. This God, whoever he was, had chosen not to fill the emptiness inside of me.

And so I entered the Academy. Perhaps I was hoping God had planted a useful passion somewhere in the pages of a book or beneath the lens of a microscope. I searched everywhere, earning as I went along the regular praise of my fellow academicians. Yet as the years went by, little did they know how hollow I was inside. For always, almost every day, I begged God for guidance. Yet never once did he answer me. This then was the state in which I found myself as I approached graduation.





Through the years at the Academy I had become a habitue of a little cafe near the campus. The owner was a pleasant old man by the name of Matthieu. Some evenings, when business was slow, I had the pleasure of his company as I dined.

I was not then a man who much appreciated the rewards of true friendship. For this reason, my relationship with Matthieu never transcended the usual formulae of routine pleasantries. I sensed however that Matthieu was not like me in this regard. Yet he was patient, as if he was waiting for a certain moment. But that moment never seemed to arrive.

The day was fast approaching when I would graduate, leave the Academy and its comfortable environment to seek some post in life consistent with my considerable knowledge.

One evening I went to the cafe and for the first time found Matthieu was not there. Mildly concerned, I inquired as to his whereabouts and was discretely informed by one of his waiters that Matthieu's wife had passed on. I neither asked for nor received any further details. Yet this matter weighed heavy on my heart.

I made sure I went to the cafe every night after that. It was only after several days however that I found Matthieu back at his usual post. Despite a heavy trade and an early hour, he kindly sat down beside me as my dinner was served.

"My friend, I am truly sorry for your loss." I said. "I wish there was something I could do or say which would be of any help to you."

"Do not be troubled." He said. "This isn't a time of sorrow for me, but a time of joy. My Sophie is in a better place. I am quite sure of that!"

"A better place? Where? And how can you be so sure?" I blurted.

"I know, because God told me." Matthieu replied.

Now this made me pause. I gazed into his grey eyes and considered my reply. I decided on this:

"Matthieu," I said, "I have no wish to question anything which gives you comfort, especially now. Yet I must ask, how can you possibly believe God himself has spoken to you? I grieve for your loss... as much as I am able. I myself have begged God most of my life for guidance. Yet never once... as I say, not even once has God spoken to me! How can you say he would speak to you and not to me?"

And now the moment which Matthieu had been waiting for had finally arrived. He sat back and measured me with his kind eyes and began to tell the story which transformed my life.

"My friend," he began, "when I was young I was as fey and full of doubts as you are now. I married early and took a position as junior accountant at a big firm in the City. I worked hard and the hours were long. Yet Sophie and I were very happy, and our life together seemed full of promise."

"We considered a family, yet decided to wait until we could afford a proper home to raise the children. A few years went by. I continued to work as hard as I could and in due course, by the grace of God, things seemed to be coming together."

"Then came that fateful day when I returned home and found my beautiful wife in a state of terrible agitation. I asked her what the matter was.

"She had been to the doctor a few days previous to inquire about a small but persistent pain. The doctor had ordered tests and that day had talked with her about the results."

"That small pain was in fact the first pang of a terrible quickening. Some men call that quickening cancer, but I came to know it as the thoughtless judgment of an uncaring God."

"So, after the crying and the denials, began the treatments. My friend, cancer is a brave and resourceful adversary. One should even grow to admire it were it not for the sheer incompetence by which it chooses its victims. We fought it with every means at our disposal."



"For months on end the doctors brought their magnificent weapons to the battlefield. Their chemicals and machines killed the cancer's dark little armies by the thousands. Yet however many of them died, more rose to take their place. Towards the end, we began to lose hope. Every foot we gained against the enemy came at the cost of two."

"I tell you now these doctors were heroic. Yet even they at last conceded defeat. And so they implored me to take my beautiful Sophie home from the hospital and keep her comfortable until the inevitable end of this hopeless war. I acquiesced."

"All this while I begged God for mercy. Like you, every night I prayed and then waited in silence for an answer. Yet God never once spoke to me. In time I became consumed by rage. Was I not worthy? Perhaps I was not. But even if this was true, why should my precious Sophie suffer and not me? At last I came to believe that a god who has no voice has no place in the lives of men. So I shut him out of mine."

"Sophie at last took to bed and I knew she would not leave it until she traded that place for the grave. She had become so pale! Yet every word which escaped her dry lips breathed back into the world the full measure of the love with which she was filled. I cried for her the rivers she could not."

"A curious thing about life is how little regard it has for tragedy. While my life was coming apart, the needs of my job failed to stop and wait for me to satisfy them at a time of my choosing. Cruel as this may be however, I understood. Fortunately my sister Anne had consented to take care of Sophie while I attended to the demands of my employers."

"There came the time when on behalf of a wealthy client, my employer asked that I review the accounts of a foundation which maintained a certain museum. The museum was hundreds of miles away and the review would require an extended visit. I could not decline the assignment."

"I kissed my Sophie goodbye, hoping as I did that she would linger on at least until I returned."




"You may not know of this museum. I didn't. It was the project of an obscure church and its aim was to commemorate the hero's of Christian history. Our client only wished to learn if his donations were being fairly spent."

"I departed early one morning by train and arrived late in the evening at Metz. The museum director greeted me at the station and kindly drove me to my hotel across from the museum, where I spent a restless night."

"The next day I visited the museum and began my audit. I worked for hours, verifying accounts and expenditures. This went on for several days. Each evening I would call home and learn from Anne, not unexpectedly, that Sophie's condition was steadily worsening."

"Finally one morning I came to the end of the audit. All of the books were in order. I was anxious to return home, make my report and hasten to Sophie's bedside. Yet my train was not to leave until much later in the evening."

"As a way of passing time, the museum director suggested I tour the actual museum, which I had only viewed while passing from my hotel to his offices. I was not particularly excited by the prospect, yet out of courtesy accepted his invitation. Since he and everyone else was busy attending to prior commitments, the director appointed Pierre, the janitor, to show me around. Thus began one of the oddest experiences of my life."

"Pierre was a quiet man of diminutive aspect. At first, his shy, humble nature seemed to provide ample evidence for why such men become janitors. We toured the exhibits of the Apostles, of Paul, then of all the other Catholic Saints. At each exhibit Pierre provided a short, reverent exposition."

"As the tour progressed I began to notice something about Pierre which seemed strange and out of place. To my mind, inexplicably, his presence seemed to add a sort of luminescence to each display. It was almost as if he himself was a lamp which seemed to outshine all the lights in the museum."




"When we reached the exhibit of Saint Augustine, Pierre turned to me."

" 'You are troubled.' He said."

"I considered. 'Yes.' "

"He stared, almost through me. 'You want a cure for this.' "

"It was not a question. 'Yes.' I said."

"He considered. 'I am not myself a significant man.' He said. 'But my father is. He is a very great doctor. Do you need a doctor like that?' "

"I smiled and humored him. 'Yes I do.' "

" 'Shall I ask him to visit you then?' He said."

" 'No.' I replied. "It isn't me who needs a great doctor. My wife..."

"I didn't want to say more. He looked at me questioningly and almost imperceptibly shook his head. 'If you wish then...' He said with a sigh."

"In due course the tour came to an end. I thanked Pierre for his time and shook his hand. By then the hour was late. The museum director rushed me to the station barely in time to catch the train. I did not arrive back home until well after midnight. And so begins the strangest part of my story."

"I slept in a room next to Sophie's that evening so as not to disturb her. Oddly, I slept that night as soundly as I had in months. I didn't wake till close to noon the following day. I dressed quietly and tiptoed downstairs."

"Now I cannot describe to you how I felt when I reached the kitchen."

Matthieu paused. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"What?" I said finally.



"Sophie was there." He said.

I tried to muster another "what" but found my voice somehow constricted. Matthieu nodded.

"A man cannot reconstruct in words the true nature of moments like that." He said. "I think she said something like 'I thought I would make you breakfast... I am feeling so much better...', but that is just a guess."

Matthieu shook his head. "In any case, she was out of bed, alive and vital."

"I do not know how long it took me to regain the power of speech. But I was long finished with the wonderful breakfast she had prepared for me and half-way through my second cigarette before I was able to ask her how this glorious thing had come to pass."

"She told me that the afternoon of the day before she had been visited by a doctor who claimed to be a friend of mine. She could not remember his name, or exactly what it was he did to her. Yet shortly after he left she found herself able to rise from the bed. She was weak at first, yet though out the evening she gradually regained her strength."

"And that was all I was able to know... then that is. Oh the questions I posed to her were legion. Yet her answers didn't tell me any more. Strangely, what I perceived to be a miracle, she seemed to regard as little more than the chirping of a robin or the budding of a rose."

Matthieu paused, as a man who has painted a masterpiece and considers the final brush strokes. He continued.

"That was over 40 years ago." He said. "Since that time we have raised six beautiful children and enjoyed the company of so many of theirs'. This cafe was our dream, and has opened doors for us into the lives of countless interesting and worthwhile people, among whom you yourself are not the least. But that is not the end of my story."

Matthieu stared at me, waiting... but for what? I had the odd feeling that in some way I had become part of his story.

Then he became a boy. He looked down at the table as a child trying to manufacture an excuse which he knew his Mother would not believe.

"Less than a week ago," he said, "I stood before Sophie's bed, waiting on the same fate which I had waited for over forty years before. I held her dear, thin hand and prayed. But I did not pray this time that she should rise from that bed. This prayer instead was all that a common man can offer as thanks for God's mercy. These were her last words:"

" 'Dear husband', she said, bestowing on me a title surpassing that of the greatest of kings..."

Through the tears, he struggled to continue. " 'Dear husband, before I go I want to tell you a secret...' Then she told me what the doctor had told her so many years before."

"She said, 'It was not me he had come to save... It was you.' Then she died."

I reached over the table, held his hands in mine, closed my eyes and silently mouthed the words to the first real conversation I had ever had with God. I cannot count the number of them which I have had since then.

My friend, the voice of the wind is not the wind's, but that of the trees which are moved by it. He who thinks the wind has nothing important to say has never sailed, nor heard the song of rain thrashing against a window. And those who believe God has no voice will one day know that all of our lives He is shouting at us. And may peace go with you always.

End

THREE STAGE HANDS TALK ABOUT GOD

The wind swirls and races high above the city. Sometimes, like invisible fingers, it reaches down into the dark chasms between high buildings, touches men, then returns and carries their residue to the four corners of the Earth.

One evening the wind reached down, felt its way along a broad avenue, whirled way down a darker side street, then lingered, twirling discarded matchbooks and gum wrappers in a lazy waltz, and waited. For, careless and fickle, the wind may go where ever it wants, yet always it pauses and waits when God is near.

It waited this time in front of the Charles Avenue Theatre of Modern Art. What few street lights still worked in that dingy part of town had long been on. In due course the theatre's red doors opened and the evening's last theatre goers spilled out.

They were an odd bunch of counterfeits. They wore their cheap suits and last year's formal dresses, made their judgments of the art they had just witnessed, then left, most of them by city bus. Yet they were not lovers of art. They were lovers of the lives they thought lovers of art lead.

Inside the theatre three stage hands were cleaning up. One small benefit of a theatre like that was the number of half pint bottles invariably strewn beneath the seats after each performance. The stage hands collected the bottles, drained them into a larger bottle they kept for this very purpose, then retired to sit, drink and talk at the edge of the stage.

From the lobby came the sound of a door opening and closing. In due course a man appeared at the back of the theatre. Now I will not try to describe what this man looked like exactly, because he looked more like everyone else than he did himself. Other than that, his clothes were threadbare, he had a wispy beard and big eyes surrounded by a web of fine wrinkles.



The man approached the stage. "Did I miss the play?" He asked the stagehands.

"Yes, 'fraid so." Said the old stagehand.

The visitor considered. "Well that's a shame. I heard the play was about God, and I so wanted to see it."

"Didn't miss much." Said the young stagehand.

"Oh?"

"Nope." Said the middle aged stagehand. "We all lost interest after the second act."

"Is that so?" Said the man. He thought for a moment. "Do any of you mind if I ask how the play went?"

The stagehands looked at each other agreeably. "Well," said the old hand, "the play was about a man who wanted to emulate God."

He continued, "In the first act, as a boy the man prayed every day that he would be able to do God's work. So he studied long and hard and after time became a great physician who saved many lives."

"I see." Said the visitor. "What happened next?"

"In the second act," said the young hand, "a mortal disease broke out in the man's home town. So he labored day and night and eventually found a cure. With no time to spare, the man prepared a big batch of his formula and began to administer it to all the townsfolk who were afflicted. At last, there were only two people left who had the disease. One was a two year old child and the other was the town drunk, an old man who had never known or cared for God. Yet the man had only one dose of the cure left and there was no time to make more. So he had to decide which of them he would save."

The visitor stared at the stagehands for several moments. "Well, which did he choose?" He asked.

The stagehands looked at one another. "I guess that's where we lost interest." Said the middle aged hand. "None of us paid attention to the last act."

This seemed to trouble the visitor. Then, looking back at the stagehands he said. "I see. I wonder though, which would you have chosen?"

This question plunged the theatre into a long, awkward silence.

The young stagehand spoke first. "Oh that is easy." He said. "I would have saved the child. She had many years left to live but the old man had only a few."

The visitor smiled. "That makes sense." He said.

"No it doesn't." The old hand said after a short pause. "Why rob the old man of life before he has a chance to find God? Cure him and perhaps he will seek redemption. The child is too young to have strayed from God in any case."

This answer seemed to deeply trouble the visitor. For long moments his head shifted back and forth, as if he was torn between these two choices. Then he looked back up at the middle aged hand. "And how would you have chosen?" He asked.

The middle aged hand had stopped drinking long before and was listening to the conversation with rapt attention. "I think we should have watched the third act." He said. "I think maybe we cannot know the right answer because where men see flesh, God sees the soul, and how is He to decide which soul is more precious than the next?"

With sudden comprehension, he stared intensely at the visitor. "Who," he asked, "would you have chosen?"

The visitor hung his head. Then came the awful tears. He tried to speak, then stopped. Words had become fatiguing and useless. Silently he turned and began to walk away, slowly at first, then running, as prey does from the eternal huntsman.

The visitor fled through the outer door of the theatre, then ran off and vanished into the night, but not before a little of Him rubbed off on the wind which waited outside.

Then the wind carried this little bit of Him high up above the city, where it whirls and twirls, then mixes and falls, like rain, into the hearts of men who will never know the depth of God's love for them.

END

THE THIRD PATH

Once upon a time there lived a man who had a wife who was pleasant, but not beautiful, two children who were able, but not prodigies, and a house which was comfortable, but not lavish.

There came a time when this man began to tire of the life which God had given him. Since he was devout, it never crossed his mind to ask God for more. Yet in his quiet hours of meditation, he sensed a great yearning to be someone else. Although his ration of life was no more than what an average man such as himself was entitled to, he felt jaded, and began to loose his passion for it.

In this man's village there lived a monk who everyone considered a great sage. One day the man visited the monk and presented him with his dilemma.

"You must make a journey," said the monk, "to find what it is which is missing from your life. When you are ready, I will accompany you."

"I am ready now," said the man.

Without hesitation, the monk rose and offered the man his hand. Together, they set out on a path which led from the village to the world outside. After a few hours, they reached a fork in the path.

"Which way shall we go?" Said the man.

"That is for you to decide," said the monk.

"But how can I know which of these two paths to chose?" Said the man.

"I cannot think of any advice which would be worthwhile to you." Said the monk. "Except that there are three paths to chose from. Not two."

The man considered this. Yet try as he might, he could make no sense of what the monk had said. "Three paths?" He said. "Where is the third path?"

The monk looked the man in the eye and spoke thus:

"My friend, only when you understand why you cannot see the third path will you find that which you seek. Make your choice now."

After some time, the man chose the path on the right and set his foot upon it. The monk stayed behind.

"Are you coming?" said the man.

"Not yet." said the monk. "Go and see what lies ahead."

So the man continued, alone. Now it happened that the right hand path led to a great and glorious city. Everyone who lived in that city was beautiful, and each of them were masters of arts and sciences. They welcomed the man with open arms, offered him a life of bright significance, and gave him an apartment in the city's highest tower.

The man resided in that great city for many days. At first, he felt as if the void within him had been filled. Yet gradually, with each ascension to another wonder, he began to feel as jaded as he had before. In time he came to realize that every wonder in life is diminished by the next.

So then the man set back on the path which had brought him to the city. When he reached the fork he found the monk waiting for him.

"How can you still be here?" He asked the monk.

"As I promised," said the monk, "I will accompany you on your journey, and I am a man of my word. Are you ready to chose another path?"

"I suppose I must." Said the man.

Upon saying this the man chose the left hand path. Yet as before, when he set his foot upon it, the monk stayed behind. With a sigh, the man continued on.

Now it happened that the left hand path led to a place of limitless poverty. People who lived there committed their lives to despair. They knew nothing of courage, of joy or even of God himself. At first, the man thought that place could not possibly offer him the answers he sought. Yet out of pity for those people he determined to stay.

For many days the man resided there. Each time he was presented with a reason for despair, he offered a reason for hope. Yet as time wore on, he began to realize that every joy in life comes at the price of one sorrow or another.

So the man then set back on the path which had brought him to the that place. When he reached the fork, again he found the monk, waiting for him.

"Did you not find your answer there?" Asked the monk.

"No."

"What now then?"

The man looked at the monk with scornful eyes. "I have learned nothing." He said. "And now I think you are not the sage others believe you to be."

"Perhaps that is so." Said the monk.

Together, the two returned to the village and the man resumed his life there. Eventually he grew old and began to die.

As the man lay dying, the monk visited him again.

"Peace be unto you." Said the monk.

"And unto you as well." Said the man.

"Have you forgiven me?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Asked the monk.

The man thought on this. Then, as he lay dying on his comfortable bed, his gaze wondered beyond the monk to his wife, his children and their children who were gathered around him, each of them with fathomless love in their eyes.

"Will you tell me then?" Asked the man.

To which the monk replied:

"It is because, dear friend, you chose the third path."

End

...ELVES

If I had time, I would find and copy for you a piece I once wrote on the character of elves, who may not now exist distinctly, but have nevertheless woven themselves over time, by bits and pieces into the whole of the human race.

But since I don't, I will only recall for you a fragment of that piece which seems to bear on the present state of our friendship.

Imagine, if you will, two individuals in earnest discussion on a subject of extreme consequence. If they are men, they are almost certain to observe the ponderous courtesies of discourse. But if they are elves, one or even both of them are likely to be distracted by a butterfly.

Then one, or as I say, even both of the elves will pursue the butterfly. Later they will go on to chase separate interests for months or perhaps years. At last, by sheer coincidence, they will return to each other's presence and continue the discussion as if not a single second had elapsed.

Now it isn't fair to judge elves by human standards. But then why should we humans trouble ourselves with any form of regret for the delightful capacities which some of us have inherited from them?

I MARRIED TWICE

I married twice, he said,
and lost,
I married God each time,
and trouble was the cost.

Should I bet on God again,
and let it ride?
Or should I this time take
the Devil as my bride?

end

YOU AND I CONVERGE

Your's, a silver nimbus 'round a veil of gold and red damask -
Mine, a claim of sandy ground - a rough hewn wooden stake.

Your's, ivory and onyx inlaid on a bright Arabian flask -
Mine, dull pieces broken off an ordinary mosaic.

I am at once betrayed
by an undeserving heart's relentless surge -
Which steals the words that need be said
when you and I converge.

MOUSE

Once upon a time there lived a great king who was sad because he had no God to believe in. After much thought he issued a decree. In it he commanded that on a certain day all the men of faith who lived in his kingdom were to bring before him the Gods they worshiped. On that day he would decide which God was the greatest of all, and this would be the one he would believe in. In due course that day finally came.

The king erected a pavilion on the main road which ran through his capitol and there sat on his throne while men of faith paraded their Gods before him. And what a fantastic parade it was! Huge idols of gold and silver on gigantic carts were wheeled by. The trumpets blew, soldiers, slaves, citizens and priests marched by, each in turn singing a brighter and more inspiring hymn. Yet as the parade progressed, the king seemed to tire of it. How, he thought, would he ever be able to choose a single God from this magnificent procession?

Finally, as evening began to fall, the last man of faith walked by. Yet how different this man's God was from all the rest! He seemed to be a humble man of pleasant, yet average disposition, dressed in a simple robe. In his hands he carried a satin pillow upon which rested the tarnished likeness of a mouse.

Confused and intrigued, the king called for the man to come before him. "What means this?" He asked the man. "When all the other Gods are so vast and splendid that you would consider as equal to them this tiny trinket?"

To this the man replied:

"Many years ago, some of my ancestors were out hunting and discovered a giant statue of a dragon, made of wax. They put it on a sledge, hauled it back to our village and housed it in a temple, where they worshiped it night and day. But after time, the wax began to soften. Curious, the most daring of my ancestors peeled away the wax and discovered beneath it the statue of a lion, made of wood. This lion we worshipped for many years, but after time, the wood began to rot. Some of my ancestors then tore away the wood and found beneath it the statue of an ancient sage, made of clay. For a while we worshipped the sage, but after time the clay began to crack Then, some of my ancestors chipped away the clay and found this mouse. It is not as terrifying as a dragon, nor as strong as a lion, nor as wise as a sage, but it is made of something which neither softens, nor rots nor cracks. And even though it is small indeed it is eternal. So that is why we worship it now, and always will."

I should like to end this story happily. Then I could say the king instantly decided on the mouse and fell to his knees. But we all know this is not the way men are, be they kings or paupers, masters or slaves. Men look for shelter in the shadows of grand and regal monuments. And truth by itself is not glorious until it is made larger by the impermanent arts of men, with clay, wax, wood and words. In that way men come to worship a God who may decide what is true, when it fact it is truth itself which decides who may be God.

So the king chose another God and the man returned to his village, beyond the boundaries of which Gods come and go, but inside of which truth never dies.