I wanted to begin this post by adding an excerpt from a novel I was working on some years back, and one that I have only completed the first chapter with. One day, when the inspiration hits me to do so, I may actually proceed with the idea. This particular story was originally published in my old newsletter, The Present
Truth Trumpet, back in 2003, and I was inspired to write it from my own unique perspective after reading Tim LaHaye's and Jerry Jenkins' Left Behind series, as well as the two Frank Peretti books, This Present Darkness and Piercing the Darkness. It is an apocalyptic story with an Eastern Catholic twist to it, so hope you will enjoy it. This is the first in a series of prose, poetry, and other writings that I will be posting that really express my other interests besides theology, which is largely the focus of my Sacramental Present Truths blog. Anyway, here is the story.
Appointed for Consecration
It was a quiet morning in the small Allegheny hamlet town of Murraysville, and nothing seemed too out of the ordinary as the town slowly awakened. The sun, seeming to be having a little difficulty itself stirring, slowly ascended the nearby ridge to coronate the green peaks with its luminescent crown, bathing the surrounding landscape in the glory of its light. The sleepy town of Murraysville slowly began to stir as local businessmen began their daily routines and the shops and other businesses opened their doors for the day's trade. Many of the local businesses were "mom-and-pop' establishments, and many of their owners were first- or second-generation scions of immigrants who came to the region to seek a better life in the mining and lumber industries that once held a monopoly over the region. Many of the mining establishments though were long gone, and although a railroad serviced the town, it was mostly freight cars transversing a north/south route between Pittsburgh and Chattanooga, or an Amtrak caravan ferrying its passengers to such exotic places as Baltimore and Cleveland. An annual polka festival also brought people and revenue to the town, as its large and influential Slovene-Croatian population prided itself for having as one of its native sons a very famous accordionist who had a string of hit records many decades ago. Murraysville, with its immigrant past and its lazy small-town charm, at one day was a bustling community, but now was merely a way-station for casual tourists wanting to stop for a bite to eat and to gas up their cars. However, the residents liked it that way, and thus a small, nondescript blip on the map it remained, with all its small-town charm and ambience.
Despite appearances though, there was a weird sense of foreboding that seemed to be in the atmosphere today, as the cows were huddled under trees in the local meadows and the dogs were bristling with some uncharacteristic aggressiveness at an unseen force, an unwelcome but invisible hobo that wanted to pass through but knew it wasn't welcomed. Many of the townsfolk, with the exception of an occasional arthritis flareup or a fallen cake or loaf of bread in the oven, noticed very little about this, but a subtle presence could be felt. Little did they know what was about to transpire in the not-so-distant future.
On the ascending Main Street slope in the "downtown" area, a shopkeeper of obvious Meditterean descent who was dressed smartly in a starched white apron and a matching white dress shirt with a blood-red tie, had just opened his little grocery store, a Victorian-era white structure facing a side street with tons of old bric-a-brac, products of ages past such as Double Cola and Dixie Drumstick crackers, festooning the windows. Cursing in his parents' native language and brandishing a broom at a disheveled and natty-looking old yellow cat that had taken some liberties with the scraps in his trashcans and had overturned them, no one seemed to take much offense at the tirade, as it was part of the morning entertainment for many - Mr. Donatelli, a 2nd-generation Sicilian in his early 60's, was a bit of a hothead and tended to express his consternation quite animatedly at the local feral cats that plagued his waste facilities. It proved to be an amusing story for the local businessmen who were finishing up their morning coffees and pastries at Charbel's cafe across the street, a quaint little establishment with classic checkered tablecloths and the most phenomenal huckleberry pastry one could wrap their tastebuds around, made daily by Mr Charbel, its proprietor, from fresh mountain huckleberries he bought from some hard-up hillfolk in the outlands in order to help them feed their families with some income. Joe Charbel, hearing the commotion from across the street, steps out of his shop momentarily with a bemused expression on his face and shouts across the street
"Well, hello, old friend!" to the now-flustered Mr. Donatelli, who had just vanquished the stray cat to someone else's trashcans.
"Acchh!! Hello yourself, you old bacciagalup! Friggin' cats in my trash again!" Donatelli shouts back, and then mumbles some expletives in Sicilian about illegitimate felines and their mating habits.
"Oh, for the sake of Holy Mother Mary, Guy! Feed the wretched creature already, and maybe it wouldn't be so desperate as to forage your trashcans for that inferior goat meat you try to sell to your customers at inflated prices! I mean, seriously, you would squeeze a lyra until Garibaldi crapped on Sicily. A can of Friskees or a piece of that shark bait you call fresh fish from your butcher block would not kill you, ya know!"
"Goat meat!! I will have you know that was Kobe beef, and it is NOT in my dustbins, you Lebanese mongoose! I swear on my sainted mother's grave, Joe, you would feed every stray mongrel from here to Johnstown and back, and then they look for dessert in my trash!! I never had that problem until you decided to petition the Holy Father to be canonized Saint Charbel of Bastard Cats and feeding them; really, what is this anyway, do you have some holy indulgence you are trying to meet by feeding that beast?? If so, you are failing because your beast is making my life hell! Maybe if you could spare some of that food of yours to your neighbors - do I have to cough up a hairball to get a decent plate of linguini from that joint of yours??"
"Hey, paison, the cat does not bellyache about heartburn unlike some bacciagalups I know! For the love of God, Guy, you are hopeless! Abwoon b'shmayo!!"
Joe Charbel finally ends the exchange, throws up his hands in frustration, and gets back to his kitchen. With a gesture of fingers flipped from under his chin at his nemesis across the street, Guy Donatelli storms with the broom back into his grocery. The morning exchange is over for today, but most definitely would be repeated tomorrow, Lord willing.
As Guy Donatelli enters the stoop to his shop, he mutters under his breath, "Crazy Lebanese bacciagalup mongoose!! Feeds the cats and they stay here!" Then, as if remembering something important, he bellows across the street, "Joe, you had better have one of those pastries sitting over there with my name on it, or your cat will be stew for the hobos tomorrow! And, none of that day-old crap either - already paid a fortune for false teeth and don't want to break them on petrified blueberries!" Turning from his shop and crossing the street, he has this feeling, and is compelled to look up, as if something was expected. He says to himself, "I have got to stop buying that pepperoni from Chattanooga, as it's making me see things fuzzy. What do those Southerners know about good pepperoni anyway?" Muttering and shaking his head, he ducks inside the cafe while still cursing at that cat, which by now was long gone. Despite these heated, loud exchanges every morning between Guy Donatelli and Joe Charbel, fact was they were actually dear friends. Their parents had immigrated from the Old Country at the turn of the century in order to start businesses and new lives, and all of the immigrant kids, often feeling out-of-place in the surrounding Appalachian culture, formed a subculture of their own. Many of them, devoutly Catholic, were the founding families of the oldest Catholic parish in the region, which was perched on a hill on the southside of town. The parish was unique in that it was both Eastern-rite and Roman-rite, and its priest, a jovial man of Russian-Jewish heritage, maintained theological orthodoxy for the deeply conservative community despite trends in the Church as a whole in recent years with the rise of much liberalism and apostasy in many dioceses. On a practical note, Donatelli also stocked a goodly supply of fresh mountain huckleberries, which helped Charbel create more of those delicious pastries, so it was a lucrative business relationship as well for both of them. However, the exchanges were still amusing, and the townspeople talked about the morning show between these two hardheaded Meditterean businessment the rest of the day, beginning on the street corner immediately after the morning exchange.
"Well, Flo, it looks like our two favorite shopkeepers are at it again this morning - I reckon it's a blessing they don't kill each other," proclaimed a portly suspender-clad man to a wizened old woman in her 80's as he continued, "I swear, those two old mooks are worse than banty roosters goin' at it like that!"
"For heaven's sake, now what was the fuss over??" screeched Flo in a resigned tone. "Too much pepper on the meatballs givin' Guy the grocer heartburn or the trots?"
"Ooohh, better than that!" drawled Flo's suspendered friend. "Seems as if Mr. Joe likes wining and dining the stray cats on the block, and they think they can get seconds on the food at Guy's cans as after-dinner hors-d'oevres."
"Welllll, Joe does make them meatballs good, although my poor stomach can't handle that spiciness," cackled Flo. "Wait a minute, you talkin' about that old yeller stray I see on Main Street every day? What a poor distressed critter, and so mangy."
"Yep, he looks as distressed as old Guy sounded today. Reckon if Joe keeps fattenin' him up, he won't be distressed and mangy for long! Them meatballs of his are like lead weights in the ol' breadbox, ya know!" chuckles the man as he pats his rotund midsection for emphasis.
The previously chuckling Flo, enjoying the morning banter, all of a sudden wrinkles her brow and changes contenance, and asks; "Jack, that was peculiar - did you just get the feelin' something weird's in the air? That was the oddest thing. Seems a bit funny out, don't it to you?"
"Well, Flo, normally I would say that was just your old bones creakin' about a comin' rainstorm or something, but then I got the same feeling. Wonder what that was about?"
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Across town, south of Main Street on the crest of a small hill, was St. Malachy's Parish. Built by the hard-working immigrants in the early 1920's, it was a bastion of Catholic orthodoxy for the area, and at times was often the target of bureacrats in the local diocese who thought it was "too conservative' to exist, and they would try to shut the parish down. However, the parishioners would not hear of it, and fought to keep their parish alive, and thus far were successful. A small but imposing edifice, constructed lovingly of local river stone and cedar wood framing, it also boasted a gold cupola over its center and another cupola adorned the adjacent bell tower. Across from the parish was an old farmhouse that had been refurbished and served as the parish rectory, where the current priest, Fr. Basil Zvarovsky, resided. At 67 years old but looking much youger with his black, thick head of hair and a goatee to match, giving him the appearance of orchestra leader Mitch Miller, the jovial cleric was often seen in the yard of the rectory in his grey clerical collar and a cardigan sweater tending to some beautiful roses that he prized as a hobby, and also because they were a symbol of the Theotokos as well. In addition to the roses, a number of free-ranging fowl - geese, bantam chickens, peacocks, guineas, and ducks - roamed about chattering and harvesting the bugs off the rectory lawn. The priest loved those birds, and although he would often have to get after them because they would leave "deposits" on his porch and walkway, he still loved them like children. Russian-born, Fr. Zvarovsky was an Eastern-rite priest of Jewish ancestry who spoke in a pronounced Slavic accent, despite being in the US for many years. St. Malachy Parish, across the street, was the pasture for his spiritual sheepfold, and was a multi-rite parish in which both the Latin Mass and the Byzantine Divine Liturgy were celebrated. Despite the diverse background of the parishioners - Syrians, Ukrainians, Italians, Slovenes, Croatians, Poles, Romanians, and so many others - they were a close-knit family that upheld traditional values and also vehemently defended their beloved priest, who had been there 20 years and was well-suited for this little parish of multi-ethnic children and grandchildren of immigrants.
While out that morning tending his roses, Fr. Zvarovsky heard the familiar cracking, adolescent voice of one of his altar servers, a teenage boy of Romanian ancestry named Gheorge. Gheorge was a very bright, albeit over-exciteable, clean-cut teen of 17 years and his shorter-than-average gangly frame came flying up the street from his parents' house just two blocks away. Seeing him, Fr. Zvarovsky stops what he is doing and walks to the fence around the rectory to meet his young visitor.
"Gheorge, what's up son? Slow down before your feet outrun your body!" the priest amusingly teases.
"Ahhhh, Father, it is so terrible, just terrible!! Grandma was watching the news this morning, and she called me up all frantic while I was at work over at the craft store, and she had some sad news."
"It's OK Gheorge - here, should I get you something to drink so you can catch your breath? Calm down, and then tell me nice and slow, OK?"
"Oh yes, Father, my apologies - I just ran three blocks because you needed to hear about this"
"OK, that's understandable, now talk to me"
"The plane, it crashed," began Gheorge in a breathless tone. "The plane carrying the Holy Father from Rome to Singapore was gunned down over Saudi. They said it was Islamic terrorists aboard who initiated it, but all reports are not in yet."
"My goodness! I really should have watched the news this morning!" exclaimed Fr. Zvarovsky. "I would think that the diocese would be releasing something on this soon also, but we need to compose ourselves. I need you to help me, Gheorge - go to the church, and see if you can find the directory. I will call your boss to let him know you will be working with me; Mr. Dragovich is a good man, so he will understand...and I need you to await my notice until I call the diocesan office to confirm what has happened. Once I give you the word, go, and call our parishioners together. I feel in my spirit something is going down, and that the Lord is stirring us through this to take some action as a parish. So, go, and I will be in touch."
"I can do that, Father, and whatever else you need me to do," affirmed Gheorge.
"Unfortunately, our Holy Father may have been the victim of foul play, as he has spoken out of the evils of Islam for some time, even when it was not popular. The bureaucrats in the diocesan offices in Europe and America were not too supportive of this, as they were seeking all this 'common ground' and other nonsense, but they were only delaying in inevitable. The Holy Father spoke the truth, proclaimed the Gospel without compromise, and it may have made him a martyr. Once I get confirmation from the diocesan office, I will have you give the parishioners instructions to meet here at 7 tomorrow night, because we need to seek the Lord and we will do so by celebrating a Presanctified Liturgy."
"Say the word when ready Father, and I will go back to work until you do. You did say you would call Mr. Dragovich for me, right? If you would be so kind, just have him let me know when you call, please."
"I will take care of it Gheorge, so go back to your business and I will talk to you soon."
Gheorge takes his leave, and Fr. Zvarovsky, no longer in the mood to prune rosebushes, feels the leading to head over to the church.
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St. Malachy's sanctuary, with its white interior and its gilded iconostasis before the altar reflecting the turquoise, golds and reds of the iconography, is at this time dimly-lit but has a pervasive stillness that can be felt in the whole sanctuary. It is a feeling of holiness, where one feels both comforted and unworthy at the same time, much as Isaiah 6 describes. Although the parish priest, Fr. Zvarovsky feels the same humility, as every time he enters the sanctuary he wonders why God chose him, a man of unclean lips and unworthy of anything God could bless him with, to guide and lead these precious people who are his parishioners. A sense of dread, additionally, takes him this morning as he enters the church, because he feels in his spirit that the death of the godly Pontiff, a man who had taken some Biblical but unpopular stands against what he felt was apostasy in the ranks of the Church, may have serious implications for those of the faithful Remnant who chose to uphold the teachings of the Apostles over the trends of the times. He sat there, contemplating his own future, and as he rubbed his hand over his thick lock of hair and down his face, he is thinking that he really could use some divine guidance now. So, he sits, reads his worn Scripture book, and contemplates.
The Bible he is reading opens to Revelation chapter 6, and while still trying to grasp his bearings, our good priest notices an unusual light filling the sanctuary, and is all of a sudden startled as a gentle, feminine voice speaks and says:
"Greetings to you, child and servant of my Son the Lord!"
This was shocking to Fr. Zvarovsky, who slowly turns his head to the direction of the voice. There, standing in front of the elevated cedarwood ambon to the left of the altar, was this woman of indescript beauty, with a pureness he had never seen in a human being before. She was clad in a blue mantle, and it was as if she had a light source within her that was emanating out from her essence. She was olive-complexioned, youthful in appearance, yet had this look of compassion that would make anyone weep tears of joy at seeing her. Her hands were outstretched, as if to embrace the now-stunned priest, and feeling overwhelmed by this apparition Fr. Zvarovsky slowly knelt and with his thumb and two forefingers of his right hand, he reverently crossed himself. Slowly attempting to come to terms with what he was experienceing, he hoarsely whispered an inquiry to the figure before him:
"Are....you, the Blessed Theotokos?"
"I am she who is clothed with the sun, a mere maid highly blessed of the Lord my God, in whose name I humbly come to you this day. My Son sends to you His peace and love. Please, do not bow before me - I am but a humble maidservant and to my Son belongs all honor, and to Him is your honor due."
"But why, why has your Son chosen to honor and bless one such as I, His unworthy servant? Please tell me, my Lady." Fr. Zvarovsky entreats, slowly righting himself while never taking his eyes off the figure standing before him.
"I have come to beseech you to read what is written, for the time is at hand. Tell all to whom God the Father has called to you and tell all who will receive, oh son of Israel! The age of imperfection will soon end, and His people, to whom He came first to save, shall be grafted into His Bride, and those who call His name but do not accept His redemption will be cut off. Be warned, many things shall come to pass before the appointed time when my Son shall return for His people, and beware the deceiver who shall come to you as an angel of light. Go and proclaim these words to the people, warn them to prepare themselves, for my Son cometh nigh!! God, my Son Jesus, will be with thee..." and as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. As the luminescence slowly receded, Fr. Zvarovsky began to get his bearings again.
The first thought that came to him was "Wow, must have been those meatballs at Charbel's yesterday!" However, as if by reflex, he was redirected to the open Bible on the pew where he was initially sitting, and as he picked up the book, he noticed it had opened to Revelation 6. Feeling an overwhelming compulsion to read the passage, he sat, studied it for hours, and before he knew it the time was four o'clock, but in what seemed like minutes it all of a sudden struck 6. So, he gathered himself together, headed back to the rectory, and began to make preparations for the following night's meeting, where after the Presanctified Liturgy he was going to offer the Mystery of Reconcilliation (confession) to his parishioners. In reverential pause, just before he prepared his supper for the night, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God as he reflected upon everything that was happening.
The feeling was something was going down, and it was big - he could sense it. But, an inner peace assured him that it was all in God's timing, and he just needed to let God work.
