St. Francis

A faint rapping at the wooden door. Francis glanced up from his correspondence, shifting on the straw cushion in time with the gentle rocking. "Yes?"

Muffled, from outside of the carriage: "Excuse me, Father, may I have a word?"

Francis closed his eyes, massaged the brow above them, then remembered himself. "Yes, my son. Come in."

The door swung open and a young man swung in. The coachman's son, Francis noted. The boy sat opposite him, kept his gaze averted. After an uncomfortably long pause, Francis cleared his throat. "And what can I do for you, my son?"

An interior battle, he saw, waged within the boy. He'd seen the symptoms hundreds of times before. The coachman's son was thin, wiry, about sixteen or seventeen. Pale skin, unkept dark brown hair. Circles under the eyes. No doubt the father worked him hard. Probably beat him, too; that was not uncommon in these generally uncouth lands. The boy's hands were in constant motion, constantly intertwining. They were heavily calloused and scarred. A hard life, harder than most.

The young man stuttered, faltered over some confused words, then silenced himself. A moment later he lunged off his seat to leave the carriage.

Francis stopped him with a gentle hand on the arm. "Please stay. What is your name?"

"Guillaume." The boy fell back to his seat.

"Well, Will," Francis said, trying on his best smile, "may the peace of Christ be with you always! If you'd like, we can say a prayer together, then you can leave."

The boy opened his mouth, hesitant.

"That is, unless there was something you wanted to tell me." He studied the youth intently. "Something you wanted to ask, perhaps?" Will looked up sharply, fire and passion reddening the previously milky face. "Father, what ought I do?"

"What ought you do in regard to what?" Despite the lateness of the hour, Francis was interested; such questions were indeed the stuff of his passion, and made these tiresome trips as papal legate more bearable.

More wrestling of intertwined fingers. Then again, with confidence: "With my life, good sir."

Francis leaned back. "Ah. I see." He examined the boy more. Probably the lad had no more than a rudimentary education. Fifty-fifty he could read or write. No, he reflected further, thinking of the brute of a father the coachman undoubtedly was, no, he couldn't read or write. He and his pa perhaps ran the coach nine months or so out of the year, until winter storms made the passes unpassable; then odd jobs for the remaining three. Care for mangy horses; basic carpentry skills for maintenance of the carriage. Long days, a hard life.

"You work with your father," he began, more as a way to gain circuitous insight than to pronounce a sentence, when the boy interrupted fiercely:

"Father, no!" He shrunk back, apologetic. "What I am, Father, is ... what must I do to be saved?"

Intriguing, Francis mused, pleasantly suprised. Very unusual question from such a one ... then he checked himself for his judgmentalism. God was giving this boy to him at a very important fork in their lives, both his and the boy's, Francis knew. He was honored and touched by the responsibily, but also humbled by it.

"To be saved. What do you know of Our Lord, my good son?"

"Only the little my mother told me. When I was little."

"Is your mother still alive?"

"No. She passed on while I was still little."

"I see." Francis intuited Will was a lot smarter than he first appeared to be, or first let on. The more the old priest thought of it, the more he thought it a case of the latter. Francis grew ever more interested. Let's see where this road will lead, he decided. "Do you know the gospels?"

The boy broke eye contact. "Just some stories, Father."

"Do you know the big story?"

The boy squinted, eyes afar. "I know that our Lord was crucified for our sins, and that we can have life everlasting with Him if we obeyed Him."

Francis nodded, astonished. "Very, very good, Will!" He could see the boy was pleased. "Some of the wisest men of the world do not know that little sentence you just told me."

Will grinned, then paraphrased: "God hides from the wise but reveals to the children."

"Excellent!" The priest folded his correspondence and set it aside. He grabbed his satchel from a peg above the carriage window and rummaged through it. He produced a hand-sized bible, a New Testament. He realized his earlier judgments about the boy had been in error. He handed the book to Will, who took it gingerly, reverentially, into his dirty hands. "Do you know what this is?"

"No, sir."

Francis' smile faltered. "Can you read?" he asked, somewhat nonchalant.

Again the boy averted his eyes.

"Keep it anyway, as my gift to you. Perhaps you will find someone who can read it to you." Francis was silent, but soon realized the boy wanted more. Needed more. After a few moments the priest continued: "Here's what you can do to be saved, my son.

"Love Jesus Christ more than anything or anyone on this earth. Always keep His commandments, especially the Great One: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your mind, all your soul, all your strength. Love your neighbor as yourself. Always remember that we are not made for this world, but the world hereafter. Always defer to the will of God to the detriment of your own will. Remember that self-love is the root of all sin; avoid pride, greed, envy, avarice, lust, anger, sloth. Practice humility in all your affairs. Embrace your crosses, carry them as your Lord carried His. Carry them faithfully, keeping your eyes fixed on heaven. Pray to your heavenly Father every day, as many times as possible. Attend the Holy Mass as often as you can, partaking in the Blessed Sacrament, and confess your sins just as often.

"Do these, and you will be saved."

The boy remained in Francis' cabin a few more minutes longer, absorbing the older man's words, repeating them to himself and glancing to Francis for acknowledgment when he got them right. Quickly he memorized the priest's speech to him. And then, after a shy note of thanks, the boy swiftly opened the carriage door and flung himself out, no doubt up to its roof to sit next to his brute of a father, steering the horses through the miserable rain.

Eyeing the space above his head, Francis muttered, "Dear Lord, grant Will the grace to - " he heard the father's muffled yell and several thuds from the roof - "to embrace his crosses."