Box
The box was half full at the center of the tent. The traveler could not decide what other things to put in for there were far too many treasures remaining that would not all fit into it. She thought she would have to compromise the cut-off point she set to decide which things to carry with her on the journey home and what things to leave behind.
Someone will come for the art works. It just takes a call. But can I buy more art paper there? The priest reassured her there was nothing here that could not be found or bought at home or at least in the country where her home still was. She should not worry. But still she did. They would leave by morning. She had her tickets bought through the Net. He said he did not need one. He would meet her at the airport when she arrived.
It was a Sunday. They had learned about Fr. Fausto Tentorio’s death through the Net. He wanted to say mass for him and in any case it was already dawn of Sunday. The desert was as good a place as any for saying mass especially if it was for a dead friend. She was only a child when she last attended one though she is a baptized Catholic. She had forgotten all the rituals and prayers. He celebrated mass sitting down on a flat boulder, a small conversation between them for a homily as a small campfire burned in front of them sending flying embers up into the stars.
In due course, she asked, “Does God speak through you?”
The priest replied, “I am only a human being. I can only help you pray. I can also pray for you. But it is always better to pray for yourself. God is everywhere. God always listens.”
“Is that what God told you to tell me?”
“It was what crossed my mind when you asked me your question.”
“This was how I was taught to pray.”
She had with her a small drum which she tapped with her fingers. She moved her head side by side swaying to its beat, her eyes closed. This went on for a seemingly endless time until she said, “Now ask me questions, for that is what God is for.”
“Are you God?” He asked.
“No, but God might speak through me and it is for you to believe or not.”
“Is it all that God is for? Asking questions, I mean.”
“No, but that is what people usually need Him for. But what my mind is saying to me now is that He is better for having someone to talk to if only to be less alone especially when it is dark.”
“Is God listening now?”
“First one must dance or sing or say a poem, anything, to catch His attention. One must prepare one’s heart and mind before one can hear and feel what He has to say.”
“Ask Him anything at all except whether or not He is really there. For if you ask him that, He has no other reply but to ask: So why are you speaking with the emptiness?”
An angel passed between us, was what the priest thought. For that was what his childhood friends always said whenever there was a long silence inside a conversation. He relished the angel’s passing as long as he could. But what he finally said was this: “It seems to me we have the same God.”
“Though we all pray differently.” She finished what the priest started to say.
When finally they returned to the tent, she decided to close the box the way it was. After years of being away she would be coming home with a box that was either half empty or half full. The thought resonated inside her with its correctness.
