Fields of Grace

The plane rocked in the turbulent air and stirred the younger priest who had been dozing. "We there yet?" Fr. James Warner’s dark, droopy eyes opened slowly to the dull, dawn sky that lay beyond his small window.

"Not yet, son." Fr. Thomas tapped his nephew’s arm to urge him to continue resting. Fr. Thomas stretched his heavy legs and tilted his seat back trying to find a comfortable position. He adjusted the dial above him so that the stream of air cooled his face. It had been a difficult trip already. They had begun yesterday in Pittsburgh then missed the connecting flight and endured a long layover in the airport before they could board the next plane out of Miami. Things’ve started out badly, he thought and took it as an omen of worse yet to come. He waved the petite, smiling stewardess away as the refreshment cart rattled by them in the narrow aisle.

He glanced at his nephew sleeping in the seat next to him, his rosaries entwined in his limp fingers. He’s not even thirty; what happened to him? he wondered. I sponsored him at Confirmation. He was such an open and idealistic young man before he entered the seminary but now he’s become like all these new priests: so serious and pious, too conservative and zealous. He remembered the days when he had gone camping with James and his father in the Allegheny National Forest: the exhilaration of hiking in the mountains, canoeing and fishing in the Allegheny, their ranging talks around the campfire as they smoked their pipes and listened to the moonlit river. He could almost hear his brother-in-law teasing Jimmy about having a pipe or becoming "a priest like your uncle" and how the teenager just nodded his head and smiled, deflecting the taunts by staring intently into the fire or at his line bobbing in the ripples undulating on the river. Maybe Sam’s death took the joy out of him, he thought. Jimmy would have loved for his father to have seen him ordained. He closed his eyes, recalling that shrill phone call from his sister, Anne, after she had found out that Samuel had been in that barracks when the scud missile hit and devastated his Greensburg reserve unit. As he dozed off to sleep, he wondered why and how, with so few American deaths in the Persian Gulf War, that stray missile had found his nephew’s father.

"This is it!" Fr. James nudged his uncle with his elbow. "Over those fields and on the other side of the mountains and we’ll be in the city. Take a look, Unc’."

Fr. Thomas woke up slightly disoriented. He could feel the pressure building in his ears as they descended. He leaned across his nephew’s seat to peer out of the little window to the great expanse of colorless earth which lay beneath them. The morning sky was heavy and bleak over the grey October fields that stretched monotonously to the foot of the mountains. "Kind of flat," he heard himself mumble. Not at all what I expected, he thought. He had never been to Mexico. Fr. Thomas was tired after the long flight. As they departed the plane and he breathed the hot, heavy air, he felt stifled by the hundreds of small, dark bodies pressing in all around him at the terminal. His nephew handled the Spanish deftly at the baggage claim and the passport counter, but it still took over an hour to get out of the airport. "So, this is where all the Volkswagen beetles are," he said as their cab pushed through Mexico City in the congested morning traffic, horns resounding across the hazy boulevards, thousands of people crisscrossing every which way. After an ambling drive through the teeming city, their driver finally found the Casa Sacerdotal de la Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe, a couple blocks from the shrine down a side street. Fr. James paid the fare and tipped their driver generously. Fr. Thomas’ legs ached as they followed the porter up the stairs to their clean, gracious suite. Despite his nephew’s eagerness to see the nearly five-hundred year old tilma with the miraculous image of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Fr. Thomas persuaded him to unpack and freshen up. The older man was perspiring and wanted nothing more than to wash the grime from his body and take a siesta.

Following the mid-day meal, it was late in the afternoon sun before they finally walked out onto the steamy streets of Mexico City in their clerics, the younger priest a stride ahead of his uncle.

"I can’t wait to see it," Fr. James said. "It’s like an icon painted by the hand of God." "Uh-hunh." Fr. Thomas was distracted by a pair of scrawny, emaciated dogs sleeping in front of a garage as they turned the corner. The sun beat down mercilessly on the animals, bright and hot.

As they approached the grounds of the Basilica, they could see the people milling about the plaza around the church. A slight woman in a black shawl and her three children with eyes like deer sat at the entrance of the plaza begging for alms.

"This is it — I can’t believe we’re here," the young man said and quickened his pace. "Look at all these people."

Fr. Thomas pulled at his starched collar to ease the itch of perspiration around his neck. They’re smaller than I imagined, Fr. Thomas thought as they passed a group of local pilgrims boarding a bus.

"Buenos dias," the younger priest said with a slight bow of his head in response to their shy glances.

"Jim, they’re staring because they’re not used to seeing priests in clerics on the street — let alone Americans," Fr. Thomas said to his nephew. "Ever since the revolution began before the First World War the Church in Mexico has been suppressed. Even this pilgrimage site is run by the government. . ."

"C’mon, Unc’, let’s go," the younger man urged as they approached the doors to the Basilica.

"I’m coming," he said aloud, then muttered. "Gringo."

Inside the huge Basilica they had to squint their eyes to adjust from the brilliant sunlight to the cool shadows of the church. The younger man dipped his fingers into the holy water fount and blessed himself with the sign of the cross. As they stood within the large, modern building surveying the space, Fr. Thomas could not get over the appearance of the hundreds of Mexicans in the confessional lines, kneeling in prayer, laying flowers at side altars, shuffling reverently all around them: copper-colored skin, high cheek bones, black, straw-like hair. His nephew was head and shoulders taller than the biggest of them. He heard the murmur of Spanish prayers faintly echoing within the Basilica.

"It’s up there." Fr. James pointed to the far wall beneath the vaulted ceiling. "Above and behind the sanctuary."

As they moved past a tour group in the middle of the round church, Fr. James’ voice softened to a hush. "I can’t believe it — there it is," he whispered in wonder.

They’re more Indian than Spanish, Fr. Thomas thought, continuing his observation of the Mexican pilgrims.

When they stopped at the edge of the large sanctuary, they could see the framed cloak high above the altar but the face and features were not clear from that distance.

"We can go around the side behind the sanctuary for a closer look," Fr. James directed his uncle. "They have some sort of viewing area — I read about it in the tour book."

Fr. Thomas was intrigued by the posture and attitude of the Virgin of Guadalupe emblazoned on the sacred cloth. "Just a minute," he said to his nephew distractedly, drawn by her image. He held his breath for awhile, then sighed in exhalation. He stood quiet and still for a moment.

When they got to the corridor behind the sanctuary, several pilgrims were gliding on the half-dozen people movers that passed before and beneath the revered peasant tilma of Blessed Juan Diego.

"Oh, my God," Fr. James muttered, his dark, intense eyes wide with amazement.

Fr. Thomas stood to the side of the rails, staring intently at the life-sized image of the Mother of God. His heart raced. His nephew was already gliding beneath the tilma on the people movers, once, twice, then again. Though he was self-conscious of being transfixed by the image, Fr. Thomas could not take his blue eyes from the tilma, holding the image like a memory: her mestizo face so benign, almost sad in its beauty; her delicate hands folded in prayer; her blue, starry mantle draped about her bowed head and gentle figure with grace; her printed gown modest and muted, yet colorful; her black hair peeking out from her veiled head; and the light — the light all around her.

Fr. Thomas followed his nephew onto the people mover, gazing upward as they glided by the beautiful image emanating from the rough cloth. When they got off, the older priest bumped into a small, pregnant woman with a child trying to ease by him.

"Excuse me," he said and touched her shoulder, embarrassed by his paunch.

"Padre," she said and drew her dark shawl about her as she guided her child past him.

"There’s a eucharistic chapel around the side, here," Fr. James said and took his uncle by the elbow. "Let’s pray together for awhile."

As they ascended the ramp leading out of the corridor, Fr. Thomas O’Leary took a long, last look at the miraculous image of the Blessed Mother emblazoned on the coarse peasant fabric ornately framed in bronze, silver and gold. She’s beautiful, he thought.

In the chapel, he slouched in the pew, while his nephew pulled out his rosary and knelt in adoration before the tabernacle housing the Lord. Fr. Thomas was weak and a little dizzy, his eyes aching, unable to offer articulate prayer. He was vaguely aware of the people around them scattered in the other pews: young men, women with children. He closed his eyes. A deep, resonant tone seemed to sound within him. He could see the haunting image of the Blessed Virgin Mary in his mind’s eye.

A few minutes passed and when he opened his eyes he felt like he was returning from somewhere. He smelled the fragrance of the fresh roses in vases near the tabernacle amid the hundreds of burning candles. Everything looked different, more distinct, except his nephew seated in the chapel pew next to him. Even the quality of light seemed altered, more soft and diffused. He looked toward the tabernacle. "My Lord and my God," he whispered in prayer. He noticed the large, powerful fresco of the Holy Trinity for the first time: the vigorous Christ triumphant with burial wrappings unfurling about him, poised at his Father’s strong hand, a dove-like fire blazing between them.

"You ready?" the younger priest asked his uncle.

"Let’s go," he nodded. "I’m hungry."

Outside, they stood beyond the large Basilica doors looking out across the evening plaza partially filled with pilgrims, the sun still hot and relentless.

"Look at them." Fr. James motioned with his head. "They walk on their knees across the cobblestone plaza in reparation for their sins or to invoke the Virgin’s intercession on the day their children are baptized. It’s twice as long as a football field."

Fr. Thomas peered out over the host of pilgrims. The people moving from side to side as they walked toward the Basilica on their knees, others ambling about them in the plaza, looked like a great field of grain swaying to and fro in the merciful evening breeze. Fr. Thomas was touched by the devotion of these Mexican pilgrims despite his usual cynicism.

As they walked back to the Casa Sacerdotal, the priests bought some bottled water from a vendor, gulping it down as they quietly made their way up the street. They walked by a young couple holding hands on a bench, the mother placing bits of food in the mouths of their two small children.

After the simple, evening meal shared with only a few of the dozen priests who lived at the Casa and served the Basilica, Fathers Thomas and James retired to their rooms.

"I liked that Raphael," the younger one said as they climbed the stairs, referring to the Columbian friar who spoke with them over beans and rice. "He was friendly and talkative."

"Ah, you’d like anybody named after an angel, " Fr. Thomas said. He enjoyed teasing his nephew about his piety, among other things. "You liked that pretty cook, too. I heard you charming her with your Spanish."

Fr. James blushed. "Asking for another cup of coffee is hardly flirting," Fr. James countered once they were inside their suite. He picked up his copy of St. John of the Cross’ Dark Night of the Soul. "I’m going to read a little."

"I’m going to bed," Fr. Thomas said with a tinge of pride for his nephew’s youthful adventurousness that had gotten them to Mexico. "I’m beat. Good night, Jim."

"Mass in the little chapel downstairs before we leave for the shrine, tomorrow," Fr. James said. "Good night, Unc."

Fr. Thomas washed and changed quickly. He smoked a pipe to help him unwind from the day. His senses were buzzing with stimuli from the afternoon’s tour of the shrine. He fell asleep shortly after he slipped between the sheets, mumbling the "Hail , Mary," the droning of the city’s endless traffic rising to him through the open windows of the night.

And as he drifted off to sleep, he glided across autumn fields, swaying at the river’s edge, entranced by the undulation of the water, moonlight spangling on the ripples; and he was waiting for something, anticipating the emergence, when the water broke in a fury and the huge hands clasping the golden chalice breached the river, the water spilling over the lip turning blood red as it cascaded in streams from the cup, the splash changing the waters to a river of light glistening up and down stream. "Kit-tan-ne," she breathed. And Fr. Thomas awoke in a sweat in the dark night, reaching out across that mysterious, gleaming river of light that haunted his dreams, the woman’s enchanting voice echoing in his ears: "Kit-tan-ne."

The next day, after they concelebrated morning Mass and had a breakfast of sweet rolls and coffee, they got an early start as Fr. James was determined to get a thorough look at all the buildings and grounds of the Basilica shrine. Along the way, they passed the two ugly dogs sleeping in front of the garage. As they strode across the cobblestone plaza, Fr. Thomas recalled his luminous dream from the night before. "Kit-tan-ne," he whispered more than once, enjoying the mysterious evocation of the word from some foreign tongue or other. What does it mean? he thought. The original basilica was in disrepair, scaffolding and ropes surrounding the sinking foundation. So they ventured into the small Indian chapel, a stone’s throw away, where tens of thousands of Indian converts had been baptized since the sixteenth century. Something about the small chapel of the Indians intrigued Fr. Thomas. Children played about the stone monument. Fr. James translated the plaques and markers for his uncle, unfolding the story of Bishop Zumarraga, the tilma full of roses, the miraculous events of 1531, and the millions of converts who entered the Church in the decade following the apparitions. The younger priest led them through the beautifully manicured gardens to the outdoor display dramatizing the Virgin Mary’s appearance to Blessed Juan Diego on the side of Tepayac Hill. The figures were larger than life-size; the government kept this tourist site immaculate, almost too neat and clean.

They stopped for something to drink at the refreshment stand and sat under an umbrella shading their table from the blazing heat. Fr. Thomas wondered if the woman’s voice in his dream was supposed to be the voice of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He thought he heard her breathe that word again, "Kit-tan-ne," like a whisper or locution. Resting awhile, the two priests discussed their impressions and their plans for the rest of the day. But while they tried to talk around it for awhile, eventually their polarity surfaced; it always did: liberal/conservative, pastoral/dogmatic, skeptical/loyal. That dichotomous tension revealed itself in most everything they said. Fr. Thomas was growing irritated with his nephew’s penchant for order, for giving directions, and for insisting that they explore all the grounds before it got too hot. Why is he so hellbent on accomplishing systematically what would happen anyhow if we just took things more casually? he thought. Nonetheless, he agreed to climb to the top of Tepayac Hill to see the other chapel, in exchange for a walk through the open-air market adjacent to the grounds of the shrine. They meandered through the hundreds of little, make-shift, vending booths which sold leather goods, roasting meats and rice, hammered metal trinkets, bottled water and sodas, earthen vessels, and images of the Virgin of Guadalupe on everything from tee-shirts to bumper stickers, from painted glass to key chains. Fr. Thomas bought a hand-worked leather belt and a key chain before Fr. James prevailed upon him to complete their course.

The path was steep and ambling along the hillside; Fr. Thomas could feel the grade in his legs and the heat rising from the walkway. Slowly, they ascended the hill alongside the other pilgrims, following the circuitous path that went first one way and then the other. They stopped a couple of times for Fr. Thomas to catch his breath, which only further irritated the older priest, reminding him that he was approaching sixty. The sunlight was intense through his white, thinning hair and on his fair skin. When at last they reached the hilltop, they panned the vast view of the sprawling city laying beneath the canopy of haze and smog which hung perennially over the millions of people. The largest city in the world stretched before their eyes to the mountains on the horizon. They stood beneath the four colossal archangels chiseled from blocks of stone and perched on the hilltop like sentinels. The huge hands and arms of the statues conjured Fr. Thomas’s dream of the breaching chalice in the river of light. What did it mean? he thought as they toured the little chapel with its hundreds of painted angels beautifully decorating the ceiling, the walls and the columns. "Kit-tan-ne," he heard the whisper, again. Crutches, photographs and hand-made cards were layed randomly at the feet of angelic statues, marking petitions and gratitude, testimonies to inexplicable healings. Fr. James was deeply moved by these personal displays of devotion, while Fr. Thomas regarded them as naive piety at best or superstition at worst. They stopped to pray awhile before they started their descent. Halfway down the hill, they took another path that passed beneath a line of trees, shading them from the harsh, noon-day sun. A few beggars, resting against the trunks, reached their hands out in supplication. Fr. Thomas gave them some coins. Tired and hot, a little irritable, at last the two priests found themselves nearing the Basilica, in front of an enormous metal statue of Pope John Paul II, nearly as large as the archangels on Tepayac Hill. They stood in the shadow cast by the statue. Fr. Thomas wiped his face with a handkerchief.

"He’s great," Fr. James said, marveling at the huge statue of John Paul II in full papal regalia. "I mean he’s probably going to be considered the greatest pope of the twentieth century — one of the most important in the history of the Church."

Fr. Thomas turned away from his nephew’s excited chatter, trying to avoid that lightning rod for the tensions that had been crackling between them the past couple of days, the past couple of years.

"It says here that this was erected following his visit to Mexico City back in the first year of his pontificate," Fr. James translated for his disinterested uncle. "When it’s all over, I’ll betcha Church historians will be calling him Pope John Paul the Great; I just know it."

"Get off of it, Jimmy," Fr. Thomas protested, irritated with his nephew’s hasty judgment. "He’s too rigid, too narrow, too Polish. He’s no Paul VI, that’s for sure."

"Too narrow? Where have you been for the last twenty years?" the younger man insisted. His hand gestured toward the statue. "He’s leading the Church into a new millennium. He’s restored the fullness of Catholicism — the fullness that your generation tried to destroy after the Council."

Fr. Thomas was stung by the ferocity of his nephew’s rebuttal, the intensity out of proportion to the topic. Yet, he could not refrain from defending his generation of the Church against Fr. James’ denunciation. "Where have I been? Where have I been? Trying to bring the gospel to the market place; trying to make it meaningful for people; trying to make it — relevant," he hesitated over the word.

"Oh, right, ‘relevant’." Fr. James raised his hands in mock adulation. "All you made it was mundane and banal. That’s why half the people don’t go to Church anymore. Your generation relativized the truth; you sacrificed the sacred mysteries on the altar of relevancy."

A small crowd of Mexicans stopped to watch and hear the American priests gesticulating wildly and arguing in loud tones, though the English words were lost on them.

"What do you know, anyhow?" Fr. Thomas said, getting personal. "How long have you been a priest? Three, four years? The oils haven’t even dried yet."

"Long enough to recognize a fraud when I see one!" Fr. James was trembling, tears welling up in his red, contorted face. He looked at his uncle as if he was going to say something, but then he turned away and strode back up Tepayac Hill, leaving Fr. Thomas shocked and hurt beneath the shadow of the Pope’s statue.

Fr. Thomas watched his nephew roughly push by some slow-moving people, watched him grow smaller as he ascended the path, eventually disappearing among the throng of pilgrims. His nephew’s inappropriate outburst upset him deeply. He was hurt and embarrassed. He shuffled into the Basilica more to get away from the site of their conflict than to go into the church. He found himself walking toward the eucharistic chapel with the fresco of the Holy Trinity. He knelt down and held his head in his shaking hands; a feeling of abandonment, estrangement from the Lord, overwhelmed him. "Where have I been for the last twenty years?" he prayed in desperation out of the apathy that held him like a vice. He knew he had lost his passion for his priestly work, for the Church, for the mystery of the sacraments, for everything save the measurable administrative efficiency that always distinguished his pastorates. He thought of his friends and classmates who had left the priesthood in past years. Their leaving had been painful for him, causing him to question his own vocation. "Where have I been?"

Back at the Casa, in his bedroom, Fr. Thomas heard the door to their suite open, signaling his nephew’s return. He felt bad that he had permitted the heat of the day and the argument to lead to personal insults. He heard Jim’s bedroom door close softly. He loved his nephew like he was his own son. But Jim had touched a nerve, exposing his slow, ambivalent drift from the Church the past twenty years: his failure to maintain his reading, his disaffection with the Holy Father, his struggle with prayer: his acedia. He knew his nephew was right: his spiritual life felt empty and false; his prayer had grown dry and infrequent. He had promised his sister that he would always look out for him after Sam’s death, help him mature as a man and a priest. It would be a challenge, now. And he thought he understood what was going on in James, too, his wise, paternal heart moved with compassion for his nephew’s railing against the death of his father that had wounded him and left him vulnerable, ranting against the fears of his young life, against the chaos of the world he inherited from a previous generation, his generation. Fr. Thomas thought he could hear a trace of that railing in his nephew’s every dogmatic declaration, every pious pronouncement — even when he was right. He knew that he would have to be the first to make a move toward reconciliation, to reach across that generational divide. He thought of Samuel and how much he had been like the brother he never had. He recalled their camping trips in the forest, fishing on the river with little Jimmy, and he remembered something about the nights around the campfire, the ritual of Sam and him lighting up their pipes while the boy looked on in awe, wanting to be a man like his father, like his uncle. He smiled with the memory of the boy’s urgency. We’ll have a pipe, he thought and gathered up his tobacco.

Fr. Thomas rapped three times on Fr. James’ door. The young priest came to the door in his tee-shirt and shorts, his dark eyes droopy with sleep.

"C’mon, Jim," Fr. Thomas said. "I got a surprise for you. Put on your robe."

"Hunh?" Fr. James said.

The older priest led the younger man up the stairway a couple of flights, then out onto a small patio that opened onto the dusk. He pointed to a short ladder that rose to the roof of the Casa. "You first."

"What are we doing?" Fr. James said as he climbed up the first few rungs in his slippers.

"Nevermind," the older priest said. "Just go." He followed his nephew up the ladder to the flat roof top.

"Wow!" James said. "This is magnificent."

Before them, in the half-light of dusk, Mexico City sprawled and gleamed as faint lights glimmered here and there among the myriad of buildings that stretched indistinctly to the horizon.

"Twenty-five million people," Fr. James said. "She sure knew what she was doing."

"Here." Fr. Thomas handed one of the packed pipes to his nephew.

"I don’t smoke," he said.

"It’s about time," Fr. Thomas said and struck a match. "Just draw on this a few times."

"Alright, Unc’," the younger priest said. He drew on the pipe several times as his uncle held the match above the bowl of tobacco. The young man coughed.

"Don’t inhale," Fr. Thomas laughed. "You’ll kill yourself."

The smoke curled heavenward like incense as they puffed on their pipes, looking out onto the wondrous expanse of the city glittering under the patina created by the dusk light diffused through the cloud of smog that hung over that intricate, urban matrix nestled in the prairie basin.

"I’m sorry, Uncle Thomas," Fr. James said. "Sorry for the awful things I said to you this afternoon."

"I’m sorry, too, Jim," Fr. Thomas said. "Sorry for fighting with you."

"Sometimes, I get too full of myself," the young man said.

"Sometimes, I’m not full enough," the old priest said.

Then they talked about how seminary life had changed so much in a generation and they exchanged stories of their priestly lives, stories of babies wailing during homilies, couples fighting at wedding rehearsals, anointings in the emergency room, ushers forgetting the second collection, the hard funeral of a young mother or father. With the darkening of the evening, the glow of dusk hovered around them on the rooftop and gave the city a golden sheen. Like some old chief and his brave warrior, they smoked their pipes, making peace with each other, with the passage of time, with the Church, with God, until their talk came around to where it was supposed to go in the first place.

"I miss my Dad," Fr. James said. "I miss him alot."

"I know," Fr. Thomas said. "I miss him, too."

Something passed between them as they smoked their pipes, something ancient yet alive. They had found a place of their own, a sympathy beyond the world yet surely in it, a grace that bound them to each other, forever. They were priests according to the order of Melchizedek, a bond even deeper than the common blood that coursed through their veins. They took their last puff and then prayed together on the rooftop looking out over that seemingly endless field of gold that glimmered and sparkled to the night’s horizon.

That night, Fr. Thomas slept soundly, resting his body and mind, his heart and soul, in the grateful peace they had made. On the flight home the next afternoon, Fr. Thomas kept recalling those ten thousand morning worshippers gathered in the new Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe as he and James concelebrated the special thirtieth anniversary Mass of its solemn dedication. He remembered the orderless throng of veiled and black-haired Mexicans flocking to him to receive communion, babes in arms, their upturned faces full of faith in the midst of their want. And when he had distributed communion, he had felt the power of the Body and Blood of Christ to keep each of them afloat in that vast sea of drowning humanity, beleaguered but not beaten, on their pilgrimage to heaven. Throughout the flight, he glanced over toward James, who sat brooding over his breviary, and whose dark features and hair reminded him so much of Samuel. As they flew together across the Gulf waters, he knew that something had happened to him in Mexico, something that he did not quite understand, something deeply spiritual and enduring. Soaring high above the earth, he had an intimation that somehow the ground had shifted beneath him.

Back home at Our Lady of Lourdes in Pittsburgh, the letter had been on his desk for a couple of days before he was there to open it. Father Babinez had died suddenly, there were financial problems at the parish, and the Bishop wanted him to become the new pastor in Kittanning. Without hesitation, he called the Bishop’s office to confirm the appointment; he intuited that it was the right time to go. Then he had called his nephew with the news of the transfer that he knew the young man would interpret as a great portent from God. The two had talked excitedly about the name of the parish, the fresh prospects, the river. And in that exchange with his nephew a newfound joy began to rise in his heart.

Fr. Thomas clutched the letter in his hand as he drove in the dusk along the Allegheny River Valley ablaze with autumn colors. This was the only church in Western Pennsylvania named after Our Lady of Guadalupe and the coincidence did not escape him. He had seen the colorful mosaic before in the eucharistic chapel, detailing the whole story of the apparitions, the tilma, and the massive conversions in the decade that followed.

"Kit-tan-ne," he repeated like the woman in the dream. "Kit-tan-ning," he said deliberately, recognizing the anglicized version of the Indian name for the original Delaware village along the Allegheny before the French or English ever settled there. His new key chain with the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe dangled from the steering column as he continued up Route 28. When he got to the town he parked the car a couple blocks from the church on Water Street. He walked along the concrete path constructed near the water’s edge in the new Riverfront Park, pulling his jacket collar up high on his neck as the cool, October night descended.

Folding his hands, he looked out into the blackness, peering toward the hidden fields of grace that lay beyond the moonlit river like a promise:

"On a dark night

kindled in love, with yearning,

I set out, oh happy chance.

My house being now at rest."

He recited the first few lines of a poem from St. John of the Cross that he had forgotten he ever knew. A fish splashed on the shimmering river, beckoning. A little farther north; a little older, he thought. Same river. And he knew that he would raise the cup of mercy, he would, again, labor in the fields for that harvest of souls that awaited him, awaited a priest of God.

"Fields of Grace" was first read by Fr. Infante at the Bloomfield Sacred Arts Festival in July, 1998 with guitar accompaniment by John Maione.