Category: Uncategorized

After I left the coffee shop I wandered through town a bit before returning to my car. Dian had said to talk with Amelia, Father Davidson’s younger sister, if I wanted to learn more about his past; and I knew where to find her. She owned an art store and gallery just a short stroll away, and nothing stopped me from heading over there right now and talking with her. As I walked in that direction I went over in my mind what I might say to her. I’d never met her before and it seemed invasive, or rude, to just start asking her questions about her family history. It was no business of mine after all; and what craziness made me seek to pry into their affairs anyway? This activity people have of entering into the business of others, whether with good motives or bad, always annoyed me and I considered it to be a waste of time at best, and hurtful and destructive most of the time. However, in this case I wanted to know more, I felt an urgency to know the truth about Father Davidson’s past. So, as is often the case with these sorts of things, I corralled my reasons and lined them up behind my desires, in order to justify my actions, which otherwise I would have disavowed and found irksome in others.

With a mollified conscience, at least for the moment, I hastened to Amelia’s store. At the window however, I paused unable to enter. I glanced nonchalantly through the window and discerned a few ladies standing near the cash register towards the back of the building. I suspected one of them was Amelia and then I lost my nerve. Was it conscience, or embarrassment that stopped me? I’d like to think I decided to do the right thing for the good of all mankind, as a silent protest against the human habit of meddling. Perhaps. But I suspect it was simple vanity instead, an aversion to placing myself in an uncomfortable situation; one in which there was a high likelihood of looking foolish or boorish, or both.

Suddenly at ease, and with a subtle sense of having avoided a social catastrophe, I gently exhaled and walked slowly across the storefront while glancing at the things inside the windows. I couldn’t help but smile as I looked at the art supplies: paper, brushes, pens, paints, books teaching how-to draw this and that, and on an easel a schedule of classes by Amelia herself—drawing and painting landscapes, capturing the innocence and beauty of wildlife, techniques using pen and ink, and several other classes. I filed this away in my mind, and considered taking a class or two from her in the future. Further along, in the windows on the other side of the front door, gallery items were displayed; paintings by local artists including Amelia, a wide variety of pottery, abstract and animal sculptures, fused glass and some jewelry. Towards the back of the gallery was another small room, warmly lit and inviting, but I couldn’t see what was displayed in there. I decided definitely to return and take a look inside the store at another time.

Later, that evening I drove to the orchard to hear the Father continue his story. I took my place around the fire and as I waited for him to begin, I reflected on the uniqueness, at least for me, of having a daily story time like this. I remember telling stories around the campfire as a child, telling ghost stories and that sort of thing, but those were typically one-off things, reserved for summer vacations or something special, but never part of my daily run-of-the-mill routine. I briefly lamented living now in such a visual and digital culture. Not that I don’t enjoy a great television series or movie, but a story, told orally, or read from a book, allows one’s whole being to expand a little bit through the effort of one’s imagination. This mental, and emotional work draws us into direct relationship with the story itself in ways that we cannot do with visual storytelling.  But hearing a story or reading a book takes a lot of time—time is what we’ve lost now—and time is what we cannot seem able to find again. These things were jostling around in my head, when Father Davidson sat down and began his story again:

“Let me ask you, is there anything to be gained from looking at a stone, do you think? Well, wait…I must first apologize to all of you. Last night, you asked how it is possible to commune with another person from many centuries ago; how Elder Lazarus could confide as a friend in John Damascene, who lived long before us, and I cryptically answered that time is a funny thing. I was foolish to be so flippant about such a mystery, please forgive me for my arrogance and my presumption. That question deserves a real answer and I’m sorry that I do not know.”

I noticed several of our group shift uncomfortably in our chairs, as the Father continued: “I know some of you hope that I am some special kind of saint, but I’m not. I know a little, but not a lot. I am only learning, and I can only hope to point you in His direction, if it is God’s will and by His grace, that we may together find that good way aiming squarely at Him. Now, this aim is the entire reason for the stillness of the desert which I want to share with you, for there is no other person, or purpose for which one could sanely give up the noise and purposes of this world. We don’t empty ourselves merely for the sake of emptying but for the sake of being filled by the Creator of all. This is the meaning of my story of the desert.”

“Now. The desert is filled with stone, walls of rock everywhere you turn. Mar Saba, the monastery I was blessed to call home, is built against the side of such a wall of rock. Its foundations rise up from rock, its walls merge with the cliff face, terraces of rooflines and walkways cascade down the cliff like so many layers of sediment—building built upon building over the centuries—windows punctuating the rock like little nests, and copper cupolas like little saucers turned upside-down, rising up from the jagged cliff, announcing that man has survived here, and is flourishing in this hostile place. Man came from the rock, from dirt, and man is merging with it once again. Man has built upon the rock, and man is being taught by it forevermore.”

“But what can a rock possibly teach us? It depends entirely on our heart and what our heart is prepared to receive. Most of the time, for most of us, our heart is entirely overwhelmed by our mind—a flurry of thoughts swirling incessantly, desires seeking endless activity and entertainment, ambitions that take us far from the truth of ourselves, countless lies and deceptions that we tell ourselves and others—and in these ways, and in other ways too, our mind obscures the working of our heart, covering it under layers and layers of psychological and emotional sediment, turning it to stone. The desert helps reverse this process, transforming our stony hearts back into flesh; it reveals a spring within us rising up from a still pool of sweetness. Finding that still pool, discovering that stillness, this is among the first things that contemplating the rock will teach us.”

 

Amelia was the youngest of three siblings. The Davidson children were Meg, Josh, and then Amelia. Her older siblings could talk your ear off: Meg was commanding, while Josh was imaginative and could tell a good story. So Amelia took a more laid-back and quieter role as a counterpoint to them; although once you got to know her, she was no less engaging than her two older siblings. She was sensitive and smart, and loved beauty. At an early age she was drawn to art and literature, and she possessed an intuitive understanding of things far deeper than many adults. She could see into the depths of things, and of people, so that her love of beauty achieved a refinement that exceeded most people’s, enabling her to see beauty where others were unable.

In seventh grade she did a report on Amelia Earhart, choosing the topic because she shared the same first name, of course. She fell in love with airplanes, and flying, and decided that she wanted to be a pilot. Her parents weren’t wealthy and couldn’t afford to indulge her new-found passion with flight lessons, but her father had the idea to teach her sailing instead. The family owned a small sailing dinghy and kept it at the local marina; so, over the summer between her seventh and eighth grade years he taught her how to sail. Sailing began as a great disappointment for Amelia; it was far less romantic than the idea of flying into the clouds chasing adventures. But over time the disappointment gave way to a reluctant pleasure, and eventually she came to love sailing even more than her previous dream of being a pilot.

Amelia admired her older brother Josh and trusted him more than any other person, because he was more like her than anyone else. He understood her. When she was upset he usually knew how to make her feel better and when she had a problem he listened and cared. She often confided in him, and he had an uncanny ability to predict what she was about to say and how she felt about something even before she spoke. The two spent many hours together in Amelia’s little sailboat, laughing when he would finish her thoughts, and also just passing time in silence—communing with one another and with the world around them—in a way that mysteriously forged life-long bonds of devotion.

How is it that these bonds can sneak up on us so magically and unexpectedly? Often we have no way of knowing at the time they are being forged—imperceptibly—how they come to be, and in what manner they grow over time. We look back to find the moment that they sprang forth out of nothing, but we cannot pinpoint a particular moment. But we are transformed together, within the complex matrix of this natural world; and then made into something heavenly—matter infused with spirit, souls intermingled as friends and family forever.

Amelia and Josh were bound together in this way, as family and as friends; and naturally out of these intimate bonds there arose between them many solemn agreements and oaths. One such solemn pact is of particular note and importance that it should be shared now so that you, the reader, may better understand what transpires in the following chapters of Father Davidson’s story:

It was late winter, the two had been sailing together for much of the day, staying within the shelter of the cove. The water was choppy, but manageable for a talented sailor like Amelia, and not nearly as dangerous as the waters in the bay beyond. The small, light craft sliced through the water, bouncing slightly as it glided over and through the waves. The little sail was full and taut, and pulled them forcefully forward, yanking on the lines in her hands like an eager puppy pulling at his leash. The boat chased some imaginary prey just beyond its reach, its bow lurching slightly to the left and to the right searching, searching for something just over the next wave.

As Amelia tacked she caught sight of something, or someone in the waves off the starboard side. She yelled to Josh to look and pointed in the direction of the lifeless form some thirty yards away. As she pulled close she let the sail down and used a paddle to try to slow the boat’s momentum. It was clearly a person, face-down in the waves and motionless. Josh pulled some lengths of webbing stashed in the stern of the boat then tied them off to the tiller.

“Aim, I don’t think we can pull them in. Try to keep the boat close, and I’m going to try to pull them up to the stern, and see if we can tie them off somehow using the webbing.” Josh took his shoes and jacket off, then jumped into the water and swam to the body. He was a strong swimmer and was able to grasp the person around the chest, turn them over, and pull them up partially onto his chest as he leaned back into the waves, with one arm clasping them close. Amelia had actually brought the sailboat closer to them, which impressed Josh, though he didn’t have much time to think about this fact until much later. As he approached the stern of the boat he hit his head against the side and momentarily saw stars as the sharp pain engulfed him. Had he more time he may have indulged the pain, but adrenaline, and the sure knowledge that time was not to be wasted now prevented him from yielding to it, and he worked hard to pull the body up to the back of the boat where Amelia then grabbed and held the person firmly by the jacket. He turned and quickly grabbed at the lengths of webbing and managed to wrap them under the arms and around the torso before tossing the ends back into the boat.

“Hurry!” Amelia yelled. “I’m losing my grip, I’m going to lose her.” She could see now that the newcomer was a woman.

Josh scrambled up over the side and back into the boat. He then took hold of the woman and yanked her up out of the water as well as he could. He was a strong young man and managed to get her chest out of the water as Amelia pulled at the webbing, taking the slack out, and then tied it tightly around the tiller. With the extra webbing Josh reached under water at the woman’s pants and found what he hoped for—belt loops—which he managed to thread the webbing through in several places and then brought the ends back up and tied these also off to the tiller. In this way Amelia and Josh created a makeshift sling that kept the woman’s body partially up out of the water.

Amelia raised the sail and with some difficulty steered the boat back towards the marina. The weight of the woman attached at several points along the tiller didn’t make maneuvering the small craft very easy but she did it. Josh couldn’t tell if the woman was breathing, her jacket was too heavy to see, and the wind was blowing too much to feel for breath. It was impossible to do CPR properly with her in this position, but he could at least help her with some oxygen he decided. So as Amelia piloted the little sailboat to the dock he began to exhale deeply into her mouth, in hopes of filling the woman’s lungs with air. He didn’t think she was dead yet although he couldn’t be certain. He could be certain however, that she had been drinking earlier in the day because she smelled and tasted of some kind of alcohol.

Back at the marina they finally had help: the woman was hoisted up onto the dock by several of the marina workers, proper CPR was administered, and she was taken by ambulance to the hospital. The paramedics said she had a good chance of survival.

On the long walk back home from the marina Amelia and Josh walked in silence for much of the way; but suddenly Amelia burst out crying.

“That poor woman! Why did she do that?!” She turned and looked at Josh.

He knew what she meant, and had come to the same conclusion himself. They both believed that she had tried to commit suicide. He looked into her eyes, “I’m sorry Aim. I don’t know. A lot of pain I guess.”

She continued to sob. “We have to help her, we have to help people. She looked so alone, so frightened.”

To most observers it would be a stretch to think that one could see loneliness and terror in the face of an unconscious, practically dead person. But Amelia and Josh both saw and recognized the pain this woman was carrying as if it were a physical feature.

“She shouldn’t have to die. It’s so ugly. Death is so horrible and ugly. I hate it!” she screamed and then sobbed quietly for a moment, “You have to save her Josh. Don’t let her die so frightened and alone.”

“Okay, Aim.” Josh answered sincerely. “I will do whatever I can to help her. I promise.”

Amelia wiped her face with her sleeve and looked around at the trees. She took a deep breath and then sighed. “We have to promise each other only to help. We can’t hurt anyone. Please. From now on we only help…and save…people, animals, everything. I don’t want them in pain.” She looked up at her brother with resolve, almost angrily, pleading with him.

“Okay, Aim. I promise.” Josh agreed, though he felt a weight descend upon him and he worried would he be able to keep this promise. But he had to, for Amelia, for others. She was right, of course, it was the way required of him.

*  *  *

Before continuing with Father Davidson’s story, it would first be helpful for the reader to learn more about Richard, because his story plays such an important role in the early life of the Father. And ultimately, his relationship with Richard is what set the course and trajectory for the remainder of Father Davidson’s entire life.

Richard was tall and thin but his body was twisted slightly to the left due to a curvature in his spine, so he didn’t stand as tall as he actually was. He held his right arm up close to his chest most of the time, with his right hand hanging flaccidly at the end, so that he somewhat resembled a bird with a broken wing. His right ankle also lacked strength, so that his toes pointed slightly inward and his foot dragged along the ground a bit when he walked; this was mostly imperceptible, but when he ran, he moved with a pronounced limp. He had an attractive face, but unfortunately most people he met never recognized this, due to a chronic spasm which caused his mouth and nose to pucker—giving him a look of perpetual disgust.  His voice was high and nasally, which didn’t endear him to the girls, of whom he deeply desired to be endearing.

He was prone to fits of anger, so this made it scary and difficult for others to get close to him, and caused him to live much of his life alone; so he was lonely most of the time. Most of his energy he expended on running away, and on finding places of relative safety. His father was usually drunk, his mother generally too busy, and his siblings totally embarrassed and horrified by his presence; so his home was not a safe place. At school he had no friends, and his teachers—they put on a brave face—on a good day they could be cordial towards him; but most days they tried their best to ignore him, hoping he might go away.

They often got their wish. Whenever possible Richard retreated to a place of refuge he had found not far from his Junior High School—a short distance off the path he took to and from his home. It was down in a ravine, through thick underbrush which nobody but he had ever tried to pass. Were it not for a group of kids from school who chased him into the ravine one day he never would have found it. Terror-stricken he pushed his way into the brambles, and though they tore at his face, he kept pushing and pushing through until eventually he came out the other side into a small opening under the trees, beside a little stream. It was quiet, it was safe; and he loved it.

For the remainder of his adolescence he considered this place his home. Over time, he brought planks of wood and arranged them in a semblance of walls, which he fashioned between the trunks of several closely growing cedar trees. During the rainy months, the trees shed most water off of his little home, but he brought some pieces of plastic that he had found, and was able to string them up to make a serviceable roof to catch any water that came down from the foliage above. He had blankets and a pillow that he brought from his bedroom.

He liked the feeling of safety that he experienced in his forest home, and most of the time he liked the solitude. When he was with his family, in his other home, his life was difficult and he yearned to be back in the forest. So his feelings confused him, and he couldn’t understand why he often felt sad when he finally was by himself under the trees—he missed his family. Actually, he missed the idea of his family, but he couldn’t have told you that. That was a more sophisticated understanding than he could have articulated. He badly wanted a family to love him; just not his family, which didn’t love him. He wanted to be loved.

Perhaps to fill this void, or for some deeper, unknown psychological reasons, Richard learned a great deal about birds. He became obsessed with everything to do with birds. But in particular he devoted himself to bird nests. These fascinated him and he began to collect them. He found them in the obvious places—in trees—but also in unexpected places like wood-piles, and sheds, and even old discarded cars. They could be made of all sorts of materials and woven in many different patterns, or built-up like mounds of clay, and some even still had eggs in them. He loved these the most, and he spent many nights up tending to the eggs, keeping them warm, and waiting for them to hatch.

He rearranged his own sleeping area under the cedar trees to mimic the style of nest typical of a ground bird, this nest is known as a ‘scrape’, and it is simply a hollowed-out depression in the ground. He made his scrape in the fallen cedar foliage and cones which littered his private clearing. He felt something approaching joy when he curled up in his ‘scrape’ and looked out from under the cedar trees. He pretended that he was a quail or maybe a killdeer, hiding under the foliage, safe from all predators. In time, quite a few other birds made their homes in the vicinity, even using some of the nests he had collected and had hung in various trees and tucked here and there into surrounding shrubs.

He observed them intently and tried recreating their songs and mannerisms. They felt like a family to him and he imagined that they loved him. He began to make more nests himself, learning to weave small twigs and grasses intertwined with pieces of fabric, or hair, or whatever else he could find while he was at school or wandering around town. He searched for special objects to incorporate into each new nest that he built, maybe a piece of foil he pulled out of the trash, or a necklace he found under the bleachers. He believed these little touches made each nest unique and important, and it made him smile to give his loved-ones these gifts. “Every nest needs to have at least one special thing hidden within it,” he decided. “The most special thing to the ones who live in it. That’s a home.”

Several years passed, and Richard was in High School now. He didn’t like the changes with his new school: the different buildings, the different classes, and the different directions he had to walk—he preferred that everything would stay the same. He liked routines. But there was one very important change that he did like. He liked it so much that he sometimes sang at the top of his lungs at night while he lay in his scrape under the cedar trees. It was something that he had never had since the time he first made his nest there. Something all the other birds had in their nests that he alone didn’t have. But now he did have it, and it made all the difference. Hidden away in his nest was a special thing, the thing that made his nest finally a real home. It was a small photograph of a girl, a girl he had met in school who he loved more than anything else in his life now—a beautiful girl named Amelia.

*  *  *

The next day I was in town to get a few things and I stopped in at the coffee shop—not the franchise on the way out of town, but the locally-owned one just off the square. It’s the place you go if you want to hear spurious stories and scandalous hearsay. I’m not typically in the market for either of these, but it is also the place one can find grains of truth and elements of fact if one is willing to sift through the outrage and the intrigue of the storytellers.

The storytellers were: the couple who owned the place, Lilian and Apollo, and their long-time friend and co-worker Dian. Outside of their constant barrage of conversation, often shouted to one another from one end of the shop to the other, it is hard to imagine when they had time to work. But they were maestros in their own way, experts able to do the daily activities of running their business with little thought or effort, while simultaneously focusing on what really mattered to them, and where they placed all their dedication and pride: gossiping.

The shop had been in this same location for several decades, but before that it had been located in another building a few streets over, which had burnt down in the late 1980’s. Back then it was a café where most of the locals congregated each morning to get a quick coffee or bite to eat, or sit and have a heartier full breakfast, and to share stories from the local paper. More recently, Lilian and Apollo had scaled back the menu and now served only simple baked goods and coffees; but the gathering of locals and the sharing of stories was still an honored tradition.

As I entered, the three were engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate:

“I don’t care what they say,” exclaimed Lilian. “I know it isn’t true, I can tell these things. I’m not perfect, but God knows…why, I would even give the shirt off my own back if it had been me.”

“First of all, why bring God into it?!” Asked Dian. “What’s your point? You aren’t making any sense.”

“You’re not making any sense!” Apollo jumped in as he handed another customer their bill. “You aren’t listening at all!”

“I’m not listening!?” Dian yelled back. “Oh! That’s rich! Ha! Who’s the one that doesn’t listen?!” She laughed as she looked around the coffee-shop nodding to the customers for approval. Several nodded in agreement while others looked at Apollo and shrugged.

“I’m just saying,” continued Lilian. “There’s a lot more to it than we think, that’s all.”

The three agreed on that last point. And for a moment there was silence in the coffee shop while Apollo gave a customer some change, Dian went to change the coffee pot, and Lilian cleared a table. I stood in the doorway hesitating, debating with myself really, on whether or not I should go through with my plan. I knew there was no turning back if I lobbed a topic out there to this group. They were certain to run with it, and no telling where we’d end up. But I was curious, I had heard rumors about Father Davidson and wondered what truth there was to these; this probably wasn’t the best place to come for truth, but it likely was the only place where someone might have had first-hand knowledge of the facts behind the rumors. I felt dirty though, and I despised myself a little for coming here to dig up dirt about the Father. But was that really what I was doing? Maybe I wanted to prove to myself the rumors weren’t true. Maybe I was only here to vindicate him in my own mind. Or was I just wanting to throw mud on a good man; trying to bring someone else down a peg to make myself feel better? I couldn’t decide what my motive for coming was—I tried to turn and walk back out the door. I tried to hold my tongue, but instead I said: “And what about Father Davidson?!”

All eyes turned towards me, and the three oracles of the coffee-shop looked genuinely surprised. There was another moment of silence, the kind the settles on a place just before a sudden storm.

“Oh! That man!” Lilian gasped in exasperation.

“That do-gooder?!” Apollo added.

“Good for nothing is more like it!” Dian chimed in.

“He burnt our café down, I can tell you that much,” Lilian snorted. “And he ain’t what he appears, I’ll tell you that too! He’s a thief the way I see it. Robin Hood my ass. And a murderer!”

“He does seem to think he’s something special now,” Apollo continued. “Always was a vain young man, and proud. You couldn’t tell him nothing he didn’t think that he already knew. Always thinking he knows more than you.”

“That’s the truth! Staring off into the distance, cocking his head like a little dog, acting all cute, and squinting at you with those eyes of his…so damn annoying. Well he got what he deserved.”

“No he didn’t. Hardly! Three years? If that?! What was it…parole or something after that?” fumed Lilian.

I interjected cautiously: “Well, I was wondering if everyone thought that he really did it? This is why I brought it up actually.”

Dian briefly looked at me, and then out one of the windows. “Oh, the old conspiracy that it was the kid instead? Is that what you’re getting at? The strange one that was always hanging around in the shadows? What was his name?”

“Richard.” Apollo answered. “He was autistic I think. Fairly severe case as I remember. They put him away too…I think he’s still locked up.”

“Probably for the best,” said Dian. “What kind of life could he have anyway? Sad situation all around. If you want to know more ask Amelia, the Father’s younger sister. The whole thing is her fault anyway.”

I got my coffee and left the shop as the conversation veered to a different topic. I felt dejected, I got what I came for—intrigue and vitriol—and I knew it was my own fault for broaching the subject, but I felt dirty and as though I had betrayed Father Davidson’s confidence. I chastised myself for asking about him in there. I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything good, although I did learn something new about Richard, and the Father’s sister Amelia. So there was more to the story than just that Father Davidson went to prison for arson and manslaughter, perhaps a lot more.

*  *  *

Later that evening we gathered around the fire once more, and Father Davidson continued his story:

“Elder Lazarus was abbot of Mar Saba back then, and it was he that I met as I lay floating along the edges of the stream. He regarded me silently, betraying little emotion. He motioned for me to follow him, and then turned and climbed the steps to a small gate at the lowest corner of the monastery wall. I gathered my things and ran up to meet him. I spent the next two years with him, and the other inhabitants of that holy, miraculous place. I experienced many things while I was there, but most of all I experienced how sacred-stillness slowly makes its home within a human being; and then how this stillness opens a man to wonders beyond his imagination.”

“At first it comes to one as a terrifying menace—a stillness that is the destruction of everything we think is joyful about life in this world—and for what can be a long time, or a short time, depending on the person, it remains a menace and a terror while it shows us the emptiness and the loneliness which permeate our inner life. We struggle to avoid this; some run back to the world, others create fantasies to hide us, while others resist it with every passion of their body. But eventually, for the one who remains long enough in the presence of stillness—it becomes a friend, then a beloved brother, then a teacher and an ever-loving father.”

Just then an owl screeched from a nearby tree and Adam commented, “So much for stillness!” We laughed, as Father Davidson continued:

“But genuine inner stillness does not depend upon silence. At first it may, but in time it is no longer dictated to by silence, or by noise, or by the outer environment in any way; but instead stillness takes hold and transforms the environment. Most people can only resemble their environment—even those who supposedly influence the culture, even they are merely taking the pieces, and rearranging them in apparently new and titillating ways. But for the few people who learn stillness, they no longer simply mirror their environment, but instead they are able to mold their outer environment in ways that resemble their inner life.”

“Ah, well this is easy to misunderstand. There is really much more to it but this is an introduction at least…there is also the gift of God, the grace of God, and giving up our lives to gain true life, and loving God of course—and doing His will above all else—but this is a start. Saint Seraphim once said, I’m guessing you may have heard it before: ‘Acquire the Spirit of Peace and a thousand souls around you will be saved.’ This is what I mean; this is the way one who has found stillness causes the environment around him to mirror his own inner life.”

“Peace on Earth,” Tara said with emphasis, “I want it!”

“But first peace in heart,” answered Father Davidson. “Without peace in heart, no chance of peace on earth.”

“Tell us more about Elder Lazarus,” I interjected.

“Elder Lazarus spoke a little English, but not a great deal; and I spoke almost no Greek. But still we communicated effectively, as did all of us who lived in the monastery. Life there revolved around the Liturgy, and the other daily services, and work. An abundance of words were not required. But he was a man of knowledge, Elder Lazarus was a scholar of St. John of Damascus, who had lived and wrote in the very same monastery some fourteen-hundred years earlier. Elder Lazarus loved St. John as a dear brother, and talked with him often, confiding with him and ‘sharing the sweetness of life’ he would say.”

“Wait,” Adam stopped Father Davidson. “I think I missed something, did I miss something? Didn’t you say John of Damascus lived fourteen-hundred years ago?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair while looking inquisitively at Father Davidson.

“That’s correct,” he said and smiled back at Adam. “Time is a funny thing.”

“Well, how did he talk…I don’t get it. What do you mean he confided in him?”

Father Davidson continued to smile at Adam, and simply said again, “Time is a funny thing, isn’t it?” He looked up at the starry sky for a moment and then said, “And time is getting late for tonight. Shall I continue tomorrow, would you like me?”

“Yes,” we all agreed.

“One final thing I will leave you with tonight. After the tempest, after the earthquake, and after the fire that rages within you; then there is a still, small voice. It is a rare and beautiful voice. Stand firm against the tempest, don’t run away from the earthquake, be certain to endure the fire and outlast it.”

Father Davidson got up, said goodnight and walked back to his cabin.

*  *  *

“I bathed that morning in the waters of renewal. Layers of dust and sand sloughed off of me, and I tasted a hint of the freedom that those birds up above had spoken to me moments earlier. I remember that moment as vividly as if it were happening right now. Yes, it was refreshing, as you can imagine, but it was also terrible…why terrible?! I was overcome with sorrow for my life, how I had lived it up until now. These were also waters of repentance. An oppressive weariness rose up within me even as I drank of the fresh water, and even as I felt my body revive. Spiritually, I was exhausted and wanted to be done with my life. The water tasted so good as I swallowed it…I considered breathing it deeply into my lungs and flying away for good; my soul raising up to the heavens and leaving this poor world. I leaned back and floated for a time, and more time, until time left me suspended between earth and heaven, sometime within eternity. Who knows how long I floated like that but when I finally did open my eyes and return to myself, I was looking up into the face of another. His kind eyes smiling down upon me.”

Father Davidson looked up from the fire where he had been gazing. It struck me that his own eyes reflected this kindness of which he had been speaking.

“Well, I can speak more about him another time. If you are interested.”

Yes, we all nodded and agreed that we wanted to hear more of his story.

“Okay, tomorrow then. Good night.” Father Davidson got up from the fire, turned and walked into the darkness towards his cabin.

Eventually the rest of our group wandered off to their various places as well; Tara and Adam went to their tent, the others to their RV, and then I realized I was stuck with nowhere to go. I had come to the orchard on the back of Father Davidson’s bicycle and had no means to return home. “I suppose I could take his bike and bring it back in the morning, but he may need it,” I thought to myself. “I could walk, but my home was on the other side of town, a long walk to be sure, not less than an hour by foot.” I glanced around me at the emptiness, smoke rising from the dying embers. I shivered, more from a feeling of sudden loneliness than from the night air, which happened to be pleasantly warm. Out of curiosity I wandered off in the direction of the Father’s cabin.

Walking from the clearing, the land sloped gradually down to the east. Rows of fruit and nut trees lined my path as I made my way through the tall, fragrant grasses which swayed softly in the breeze. Nearing the eastern limits of the property the slope steepens and drops off, offering vistas towards the conifer-covered hills below, and the ocean beyond. I could hear the distant crash of the surf, and the occasional hoots of owls from the surrounding trees as I approached Father Davidson’s cabin which was situated in another clearing where the rows of trees ended, and before the native trees just beyond the property fence began.

He seemed to have anticipated my arrival as I noticed a blanket and pillow placed at the top of the steps leading to his front door. I saw the flicker of candlelight through the drawn drapes covering the window to the left of the door. I considered knocking as I picked up the blanket and pillow but then thought better of it as I peered through the opening between the drapes and could see the Father praying in the corner near his bed. Looking around me I noticed a hammock strung from the wide-set branches of what appeared through the darkness to be a cherry tree. Quietly I walked over to the hammock and made my bed and lay down. Swinging gently, looking up through the branches I fell off to sleep.

As I slept, I found myself somehow within a tempest, lost amidst crashing waves, all breaking around me and over me. I was sinking beneath the waves, afraid for my life, when someone reached out and pulled me into a boat. It was raining very hard and I could hear the sails above me, shaking and whipping about in the wind, the cables rattling and slapping against the mast. As I looked outside the boat the waves became people, all arguing and blaming one another, pointing fingers and yelling—horrible, smug faces with bulging eyes, accusing each other of anything that came to mind.  And then the rain turned to hail, and fell upon us all, those in the ocean were hit very hard, but those of us inside the safety of the boat weren’t hurt in any way, though I could feel the pieces of hail, the size of golf balls, landing upon me.

I awoke from this strange scene, and noticed my blanket littered with…cherries. I looked up into the day-lit tree and saw Father Davidson sprawled out above me, with arms and legs anchored into the crooks of various limbs, shaking the tree and causing cherries to fall all about, onto the ground below. He smiled as he looked down through the branches at me. It was a bright morning with the sun already high in the sky above us.

“You looked like you were sinking there for a moment,” said the Father. “I had to grab you or you might have been a goner.”

“What?! How could you know?” I stammered and looked up at him inquisitively. “It was a dream.”

“You were about to fall out of your hammock, that’s all,” he replied and smiled simply. “It looked like you were going to fall.”

“Oh, I see.” I thought for a moment about how he phrased it. “That’s a strange way to put it though…’sinking’.”

“Yes,” the Father replied as he climbed down out of the tree. “It is always, and only, a sinking feeling when we accuse, and judge and point fingers at one another.”

He walked back to his cabin, and left me alone to ponder this last statement. I sat up in the hammock. “Again! How could he know? It was a dream.” I said to myself as I watched him enter his cabin and close the door behind him.

*  *  *

The Father began: “The desert teaches how to be hungry; and how to be thirsty. And it teaches that these things are not as bad as we fear….of course, if we become too hungry, and especially if we become too thirsty, then we’ll die….so the desert also teaches us moderation. If we can learn it, then the desert teaches us how to live wisely.”

“I first entered the desert like most do—proud, and arrogant—sure of myself and wrapped in many layers of deceit. I was bloated, but ready to shed these skins. I came to the desert to thin down, whether I knew that or not at the time, to come clean and be made anew. My first experience of the desert was at night, I had come to the monastery of Mar Saba, east of Bethlehem, and for a time I made my home there. I arrived there at night during a hamsin, when the wind blows ferociously, and stirs the dust and sand into great billows. The moon was full that night, though it was mostly hidden, but when it did shine through, it appeared red as blood, and it lit the night sky like a furnace.”

“I can’t imagine a more appropriate welcome to the desert, for there was a hamsin also raging within me—passions blowing violently, desires swirling mercilessly in my mind, stirring up dust and sand which blinded me, causing me to lose my way. The desert was dangerous that night but I knew that I needed it, and I had to face it. During a hamsin the winds can blow so fiercely that I’ve seen palm trees with their tops bent over, parallel to the ground—their fronds whipping about frantically, as torrents of sand flow past them, tearing and ripping them to shreds. Similarly, I bent under the strain of those winds that night, and felt the sand pummel my skin, ripping at it, scouring it, until I couldn’t take it any longer; then I turned my face towards the stone cliffs that I had sheltered against, with my lungs aching, gasping for a breath of clean air. When the hamsin passed, several hours later, I was shattered and broken, close to death, but not dead; rather I had begun a journey of rebirth. Then, I knew I needed the desert, it was my only hope, because even after that night of great pain, even after that hamsin had subsided, my inner hamsin was still stirring within me, weaker yet still unbeaten.”

“I looked up at the night sky, fresh and vibrant after its vigorous washing. I was exhausted—a feeling I would soon grow very accustomed to in the desert—yet I was exhilarated too, and expectant…perhaps delirious as well. I was lying on a ledge not far from the monastery, and I could hear the waters of the Kidron gurgling at the base of the gorge below me. I smiled at the sound of the water as I drifted off to sleep.”

“The next morning, as sunlight brightened the rim of the gorge, and cast deeper shadows into its depths by contrast, I awoke to the pleasant sensation of warmth on my cheeks, though they were still raw from their cleansing the night before. The air smelled fresh and fragrant; and small birds darted across the emptiness, suspended between the cliff faces on both sides of the brook. I watched them fly, carried by warm currents rising up from below, bobbing along, upon these invisible waves; telling me that my own soul would soon be flying like they were, prophesying to my heart that their freedom would soon be mine, and my own spirit would be let loose to dance upon the wind.”

Father Davidson stopped for a moment, and in the silence I glanced around the fire at the others. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the Father, waiting to hear what he would say next. The fire cast a warm glow on the faces all around; and sparks rose and drifted off into the darkened sky. I followed one with my eyes as it lifted up and up, eventually merging with the stars; becoming one, I imagine, with some far-off galaxy. Father Davidson’s voice brought my mind back to earth as he continued with his desert story:

“The morning brought with it an incredible thirst. It came upon me very quickly, and suddenly I felt that I needed water desperately, with every fiber of my being. The dust and sand had covered me throughout, and had dried my skin, filling my ears, and nose, and my mouth; fine grit lodged in my molars and between my teeth. The sound of the stream down below once again reached my ears and called out to me. I rose from where I had slept, and clambered over to a nearby footpath, which led down the cliff-face to the stream.”

*  *  *

It was late afternoon but still a warm day, with a slight breeze picking up, blowing in from over the water. The two men rode towards town and then turned onto a side street heading to the east. The bicycle was loaded down tremendously with numerous packages, large and small, tied off to the frame, the handlebars, and the rack over the rear tire. String and duct tape held the packages in place though they dangled and swung wildly as the bike coursed across the gravel road, dodged pot-holes and the occasional errant squirrel, and bounded forward, driven by the strong legs of Father Davidson as he stood on the pedals and pulled aggressively on the handles. His passenger held on as best he could, gripping the edges of the seat tightly, with both legs extended stiffly out to the sides, tensed and quivering, as he worked hard to keep the soles of his feet from dragging across the street surface just inches below them. Both men appeared to be enjoying the warm sunshine on their faces as they held their heads slightly upturned to the sky. The Father veered off the main road and onto a smaller dirt driveway, past several old cars, and an RV which were all parked along the side. Just over the rail fence which lined the driveway on one side, was a large meadow—an old orchard actually—although the grasses and field-flowers had grown so tall, and had filled the space between the ancient fruit trees, so that now it was difficult to see them all.

Father Davidson stopped near the fence and I dismounted and shook my legs out a bit to relax them after the strenuous ride. Several people emerged from inside the RV and a couple made their way from the orchard walking towards us, as the Father leaned his bike up against the fence. He turned to me and asked if I’d mind if he left me here for just a little while, he had something that needed to be done and would return within a half hour at the most. He ducked through the rails of the fence and walked off into the grasses between the fruit trees, passing the couple as they made their way up to his bike. I saw them exchange pleasantries as they passed but nothing more than that.

Everyone seemed to know exactly which packages attached to the bicycle were for them as they untied them from the frame, handlebars and rack. I asked how they all knew the Father and they answered that he let them stay here on his property and eat whatever they wanted from the trees and surrounding vines. Tara, the wife of the couple who had walked up from the orchard, said that the property actually belonged to the Father’s two sisters, he had deeded it to them years ago before he left the country, but now that he was back, the sisters of course let him use the property as he wished, for whom he wished, and he also lived in a small cabin which he had built on the far eastern edge of the orchard.

“It’s incredible,” said Adam, Tara’s husband. “The assortment of trees that grow here, things you wouldn’t normally find in this climate: avocados, even some citrus, and nuts, and then of course figs, various apples, pears and plums and some other things that are more typical. He has grapes and kiwi too, would you believe it, oh and pomegranate too.”

“Where do you stay?” I asked them.

“We have a tent set up under the trees,” said Tara. “It’s wonderful. We have no place else to go. It is a Godsend. It really is.”

“We’re staying in the RV,” said one of the others, though he didn’t share his name.

I looked around, it really was a beautiful place, wild and unkempt, yet with a natural order, bountiful and welcoming. Everyone looked happy too and appeared to belong here, at peace and untroubled, even though by the looks of them, they had no money and little material wealth to fall back on when times grew tough, which they already appeared to have done.

I looked at my watch, wondering where Father Davidson had gone off to and when he’d be back.

“He’ll be back soon, he just went off to pray,” said Tara as she noticed my unspoken question. Then she smiled. “He’ll be praying for you now too. He prays for everyone. Several times a day.” Everyone in the group smiled about that. “It is very sweet,” added Tara. “He is very sweet.”

Later, Father Davidson showed me around the orchard, introducing me to the various trees, and telling me a little about their histories, their provenance, where they originated and how they came to be thriving in his garden now.  Some had been growing there for many, many years, particularly the apples, for longer than most people knew. While others had been planted within the past decade; several were gifts he brought back with him from overseas.  As the sun set below the western tree-line—taller windbreaks made up of conifers in the distance, and poplars closer in—we all gathered around a newly made fire, just beginning to crackle and spit. The fire grew within the ring of rocks which anchored a clearing that had been created in the midst of the orchard. We made “hobo dinners”—potatoes, carrots, onions, and a variety of other vegetables also grown on the property, all sprinkled with salt, some pepper, along with rosemary and thyme—all wrapped in foil, and placed in the midst of the fire, or tucked into the hot coals which had been gathered along the edges for greater convenience.

As we ate our dinner, someone asked Father Davidson about his time overseas, if there was anything he would share.

“Yes, there is,” he said. “I’ll share the desert with you. Because that is the most precious gift I carry with me from that time. It is the most important thing I believe, and maybe I can take you there. Hopefully I can take you there. Maybe you’ll come with me.”

*  *  *

~FS

I had of course heard of the Father, and had seen him before, many times actually, as our town is not very large; and his family had lived in the area for a couple of generations, perhaps more. I myself however, was relatively new, so he didn’t know me and we had never actually met. He examined me, in what I soon learned was his characteristic way, with his head tilted slightly to the side, a smile upon his lips, and eyes that were penetrating but gentle. We stood silently for a few moments just looking at each other—gathering information and forming opinions. At least that’s what I was doing.

He broke the silence, “I am hungry, let’s eat!” He looked at me with anticipation, “Do you have time? Will you join me?”

I had, in fact, been on my way home to eat. I was very hungry. I hesitated though, not sure what to do. He sat against the tree and motioned me to sit down with him as he pulled some things from his pockets: figs, freshly picked, a handful of almonds, an apple, and some smoked salmon. This was better than what I had planned back at home: corn chips, Oreos, a bowl of cereal, and half a beer. So I sat down next to him and leaned back against the tree. He cut the apple into slices and set them on a handkerchief spread out between us, along with the other food items and he began to eat.

Nobody was completely certain if Father Davidson was actually an ordained priest, or pastor, or how he had come to be called “Father”. It was said that he had spent time in the Middle East, quite a number of years at a monastery in the desert east of Bethlehem, and perhaps he had become a monk there, and this might have been the source of his title. I was curious about this and wanted to ask him, when he started to speak, seemingly having read my mind:

“I have been a son, a brother, and a father. I prefer to be a son, but the world needs fathers.”

“It is hard to be a father,” I replied.

“It isn’t always easy being a son either, but its better I think. I had children, many of them and they were wayward; they squabbled, they fought…they needed direction. There were hungry children, many of them where I once lived and I fed them. I gave them bread, several loaves to help them live but they fought me.”

“What do you mean they fought you? For giving them bread?”

“For the bread…in spite of the bread, no because of it. Who knows exactly? But as I returned home the next day they attacked me and one little boy, not more than eight, if that old, pulled out a knife and tried to stab me.”

“You’re kidding?! He stabbed you? The boy you gave bread to, all the boys?!”

“Yes. And they became my sons right then. In that moment I was their father. All their pain, their loneliness, their fear, they gave it all to me, to hold for them, for just a little while. So I took it and I held it for them. Little souls.”

When he said this I began to cry, I’m not sure why, but this story touched me, and it felt good to cry. It was a relief to cry, and Father Davidson let me cry, silently, without condemnation. I looked over at him and saw a tear running down his cheek as well, over his smiling lip, and then falling to the ground. For a while we ate in silence.

“This fish is wonderful. Where do you get it?” I asked.

“I have a friend, a brother really, and he shares it with me.”

“It is really good. And the figs too, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. They aren’t far, I can show you the tree, you can pick some.”

“I would like that sometime.”

“Let’s go now. I have my bike there,” he turned and pointed behind the tree. “I’ll take you, sit on the back.” He said as he gathered his things, stood up and pulled the bicycle out from behind the tree.

I hesitated, again unsure of what to do. Surprised by the offer I stood motionless for a moment and considered what I had still to do that day. My day was not busy, I could afford the time so I got on, straddling the seat and held on as he pedaled us back up the street towards town.

~FS

Chapter 1:

Father Davidson had his detractors because, frankly, everyone does. But a close examination of his life will show that, to an honest and impartial observer, there is little or no justification for this. Still, there were some who thought he was “a bit much” when he discussed his philosophy so guilelessly and sincerely, and they doubted his motives when he took the side of the poor in our town.  They said he did it for attention, or to appear better than everyone else and these people resented him for his good deeds, and his good nature.

Strangely, during Father Davidson’s life, this contingent of malcontents had an outsized influence on public opinion so that many people, who otherwise would be inclined to admire the Father’s exploits, instead grew to distrust him; and those who ordinarily wouldn’t have held any opinion at all, decided there must be something wrong with him or “why would people say what they did about him?”

The thought at the time was that perhaps the good he did wasn’t good after all, and maybe his apparent good nature was a deception, hiding some less admirable traits beneath the surface. “He likely has secrets,” they’d say, “Nobody does the things he does and really means it.” Some went so far as to assert that he “likely is mentally ill, and could even be dangerous.”

The first time I met the Father he was dancing upon a wall. It was a long, tall stone wall that ran alongside a road leading south out of town. He took one step, two, and made a little hop, then gingerly turned about in place, and proceeded again; one step, two, a hop and a turn. In this way he made his way along the top of the wall. As I approached him I was surprised to see a man his age proceeding in such a way. He appeared to be in his upper forties, perhaps a bit older, in good physical condition, though hardly an athlete—and certainly not a gymnast. His turns made me queasy because they were not elegant; his arms flapped about wildly trying to maintain equilibrium as his torso contorted and twisted in order to keep himself aloft. Somehow he managed it, again and again, turning and hopping his way down the length of the wall and never falling off.

“What a peculiar man.” I thought to myself. “Why is he doing that? He’s going to break his neck for sure.” But I stood and watched, fascinated and waiting for him to fall.

A car sped by just then, and honked loudly while someone screamed out the open window, “Don’t fall!” I heard them laughing as they drove off. And he didn’t fall, though he seemed perpetually preparing to do so. He was like a marionette up there, stilted, uncoordinated but magically somehow suspended above the earth, as if held up by invisible strings. I continued to watch him from the street-side of the wall, and was about to call out to him but then thought better of it, not wanting to distract him. Just then I heard another voice calling out to him from the back-side of the wall: “What in hell are you doing up there? Get off my wall!” I heard the voice yell out to him.

The Father continued along the wall in his artful way but turned his head cautiously in the direction of the voice on the other side of the wall. “Ah, my benefactor, I am almost to the tree,” he said.

The tall stone wall lined a private property, dividing the yard from the street, and at one corner where the street descended into the woods, there was a large chestnut tree whose lowest branch rested upon the wall. The Father was closing in on this branch, and it was apparent this was his destination, and his means of returning to earth. He smiled as he reached the branch and sat on it, turning to face his accuser.  “I made it!” He exclaimed.

“Fine,” said the voice behind the wall. “Now would you mind getting down? What are you thinking?…Are you ten?! What’s wrong with you?”

“I was just walking on the wall.” The Father said as he smiled down at the voice; and I smiled to myself, suppressing a slight chuckle. Was it really that simple? I asked myself as I looked up at him. I always seem to need a reason to do something, or a reason why I did it.

“Why do you keep walking on my wall? Next time I’m calling the police. I don’t want you up there,” said the voice.

“Come up and see,” the Father leaned out, reaching his hand down behind the wall towards the voice.

“No. I’m not going up there. Just get down…Enough of your stupidity. Go on! Just go away.”

The Father stood up and sighed, “As you wish, of course.” He grabbed hold of the branch and swung his body out away from the wall, and then dropped to the ground not far from where I was standing. He brushed himself off and held out his hand to me, “Father Davidson, and you are?”

“Francis,” I replied and shook his outstretched hand.

“Friend or foe?” he asked, cocking his head slightly to the side and squinting at me as if to get a better look.

“Friend, I hope.”

“We shall see.”

***

~FS