PRISMATIST

“Hurry up,” my Dad said as I finished my bowl of Cheerios.  “Mister Gardner is outside waiting for us.”  A few minutes later he gave me a boost up onto the bench seat in the cab of a flatbed truck and scooted into the middle where my ten year old body was sandwiched between Herb Gardner who had managed to get his belly under the steering wheel and my Dad who was skinny and took up a lot less space on the seat, although being six foot four his thick black hair left a Brylcreem smear on the ceiling of the cab. Even though Mister Gardner’s truck didn’t have a trailer and was normally used to carry hay, sugar beets and melons it was still a truck and getting to ride in it for a whole day was bound to help me choose between being a truck driver or a cowboy when I grew up. It would at least balance the cowboy experience I’d gained from riding a horse on the ranch of a member of my Dad’s church. When I say my Dad’s church, I don’t mean that he actually owned it, but that he was the pastor.

 

In fact, my Dad being the pastor of a church was the reason for the trip in Mister Gardner’s truck. We were going to a place called Trinidad to pick up a load of bricks for an addition to the church that would provide more Sunday School classrooms and a bigger fellowship hall.  My Dad told me that Trinidad was still in Colorado, but it was just before La Veta Pass over the mountains into New Mexico.  He also said that the road we would take when we turned south at LaJunta would be following the same route as the old Santa Fe Trail.  I was excited about riding in a truck along the Santa Fe Trail even if it was just to pick up a pile of bricks. 

 

“The Sangre de Cristos sure look pretty,” my Dad said. He was smoking a cigarette with his right forearm resting on the lip of the open side window.

 

I looked out across the empty prairie at the distant mountains. “What are the Sangre de Cristos?” I asked. 

 

“That’s what they call this part of the Rocky Mountains. It's Spanish for blood of Christ.”

 

“That’s because it gets all reddish when the sun rises and sets,” Mister Gardner added.  “It reminds some people of the blood of Christ.”

 

“Do cowboys think the mountains look like the blood of Christ?” 

 

“The vaqueros did,” Mister Gardner replied. “Vaqueros are Mexican cowboys and this used to be part of Mexico.  They are Catholics and believe that wine becomes the blood of Christ when it’s served at communion.”

 

“I’m glad we drink grape juice.  Drinking blood is what a vampire does.” 

 

“No,” my Dad said after he stopped laughing.  “You shouldn’t call a Catholic a vampire.  It’s not blood the way you think of it.  It’s more complicated than that.”

 

My Dad, of course, would know about that kind of complicated communion stuff because he was a preacher. I knew that we used grape juice instead of wine because my older brother and I helped fill the communion glasses before the service. They looked like the glasses that we saw cowboys in the movies drink whiskey out of in saloons.  Once my brother snuck into the Church kitchen and filled a couple of communion glasses with Coca Cola.  After gulping down the Coke we pretended to be drunk. 

 

“Do you think you could change grape juice into blood?” I asked.

 

“No, but I once made grape juice into wine. That was when I was just a few years older than you and was staying with my grandparents on their farm outside Scranton.”

 

“Did you drink it?” Mister Gardner asked.

 

“I guess so, because the next thing I remember was waking up on the floor looking up at the springs of my bed. I had an awful headache. My grandmother found me and she made me swear not to touch another drop of demon alcohol. She was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.”

 

“What’s temperance?”

 

“Practicing self-control.  In this case it meant not using alcohol. I asked her why it was wrong if Jesus turned water into wine.” He paused, looked out the window like he was seeing something far away. “She told me that I could drink any water that Jesus turned into wine.”

 

“So, you practiced self-control?”

 

“Regarding alcohol, but I started smoking right after that. I’ve promised your Mom I’ll quit, so I’ve been trying to cut back.” He mashed the cigarette in the truck’s ashtray, then took a toothpick from a box he’d placed on the top of the dashboard and stuck one between his lips. 

 

“I bet you never figured that being a minister would include hauling bricks,” Mister Gardner said to my Dad.

 

“It certainly wasn’t on the exam I had to pass for ordination,” my Dad replied. “As you probably recall, when I met with you and the other members of the church’s search committee you told me about the plans to build the addition to the church. I hate to say it, but I was probably called to be the pastor because of the building experience I got working summers during college and seminary as a carpenter for my Uncle’s construction company.”

 

“I admit that I said to the other members that being as how Jesus was a carpenter it’s probably a pretty good qualification for a minister,” Mister Gardner said, then added with a chuckle, “And since I’m the Chair of the Church Building Committee, I should know.”

 

“I joined my Dad in laughing. I wasn’t sure that it was right to laugh about Jesus, but I figured that if my Dad and Mister Gardner could do it then it must not be a sin. 

 

It was then that I saw a man walking on water. As we got closer the water evaporated.  It was only a mirage I told myself, and sure enough the man was really walking on the surface of the road.  He wore thick leather sandals, a loose white shirt and pants secured by a rope and a straw hat with a big brim around it. There was a gunny sack slung over his left shoulder and he was using a long wooden staff to steady himself as he walked. When we pulled next to him and stopped, he turned. He pushed the brim of his sombrero up so we could see his gray beard, leathery face, creased by sun and age and large brown eyes. 

 

“Buenas Dias,” my Dad greeted him.

 

“Good morning,” the man answered in English.

 

“Where are you headed?”

 

“Up the road, about ten more miles.” He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his loose cotton shirt.

 

Mister Gardner yelled from behind the steering wheel.  “We can give you a lift if you don’t mind riding in back.  There’s no room in the cab.”

 

“That would be most welcome,” the man said, a broad smile sweeping across his face. 

 

“Just hop on and knock on the window when you want us to stop and let you off.”

 

The man thanked us, then, after placing his gunnysack on the flat bed of the truck, he climbed up with surprising agility. Mister Gardner put the truck in gear and we resumed our slow journey south.

 

“You think he lives out here?” My Dad asked Mister Gardner.

 

“If he does, it’s sure a god forsaken place to choose. The only community around here was a place called El Crucero. That means crossroads in Spanish although the road that crosses the highway is barely visible. The place was just a store and some houses. The store closed and everyone cleared out years ago.  Now, there’s nothing but prairie dogs and coyotes.”

 

Fifteen minutes later there was a tap on the rear window of the cab. “Well, I’ll be, it looks like someone still lives in El Crucero after all,” Mister Gardner said, then slowed the truck where there were some tumbled down buildings, with caved in roofs and windows without any glass in them. One of the buildings with an ancient gasoline pump in front of it must have been the store Mister Gardner had mentioned. We pulled off and parked next to a grove of Cottonwood trees opposite the buildings.  In the middle of the trees was a large adobe building and a much smaller one next to it. As the old man climbed down, my Dad said that it might be a good time to stretch our legs. 

 

The building had large wooden doors and there was a stubby tower on the roof with a bell. “What’s this place?” I asked the old man.

 

“A church,” he answered, setting his bag down and looking at the building.

 

“Do you live in it?”

 

“I live over there,” he pointed at a small adobe structure next to the base of a windmill that rose above the trees. The blades of the windmill were as still as the hands of the alarm clock in my bedroom.

 

Our house was next to a church as well, but this church looked nothing like ours.  Our house was a lot larger and both our church and house were made of brick not adobe.

 

Mister Gardner scratched the back of his head. “You mean to say that you live out here by yourself?”

 

The old man shook his head. “I have a goat a dog and a couple of chickens”.

 

“Can we see inside the Church?” My Dad asked.

 

“Of course,” the old man replied. We followed him to the church. He pushed on one of the double doors and it swung open.  It was dark and cool inside.  Sunlight filtered in through the windows that were recessed high in the thick walls. Instead of pews there were a dozen or so wooden chairs. The old man walked to the front and lit two candles on an altar, A simple wooden crucifix hung on the wall behind it. 

 

“Are you a priest?” I asked the old man.

 

“Me,” the old man laughed. “No, I am a nobody.”

 

“If you had no body I couldn’t see you.”

 

“Well,” the old man grinned. “It is true that I have a body you can see, but not much of one.”

 

“How often do you have Mass here?” My Dad asked.

 

“There has been no Mass for many years. The people who once lived here have all died or moved away so the Priest stopped coming.”

 

My Dad shook his head in disbelief. “You mean the Diocese keeps it open anyway, even if there’s no Priest or congregation?”

 

“It was closed when I moved here ten years ago, so I opened it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“God told me to do it.” He stopped and looked up at the Crucifix. “At first I moved here because i heard that there were some abandoned buildings and I thought I should be free to live in a place that nobody else wanted.  I had made many bad choices in my life and had nothing and needed a place to stay. The house near the Church was in the best condition so I moved in.  But then God came to me one evening and told me that it was the house where the Priest had lived.  I thought he was going to tell me that I must leave, but instead he asked me to take care of the Church and keep it open.”

 

“How do you know that it was God?” I asked.

 

“Believe me, when you hear God speak to you, you know.”

 

“And the Diocese gave you permission to live here and take care of the Church?” My Dad asked, changing the subject.

 

“I never asked them. Once a Monsignor came, to see what the condition of the church was. He was astonished to see that it hadn’t fallen down.  He saw that I took good care of it, so he told me that I could stay as the caretaker until they decided what to do with the church.  That was seven years ago. No one has come back since then.”

 

“It does look like you’ve kept it in good shape, although it seems to be sagging a bit,” Mister Gardner said.

 

“Ah, yes, adobe is not a good foundation and there are some weak parts.  I will need to fix that.”

 

“How?”

 

“I am sure God will find a way.”

 

“I don’t understand why God would ask him to keep an empty church open,” I whispered to my father. 

 

The old man heard me. “If it was not open you would not be inside.”

 

I was about to tell him I didn’t understand what he meant, but my Dad asked if it was okay if we prayed in the church, even though we weren’t Catholics. 

 

The old man smiled.  “But of course. I will pray as well.”

 

My Dad turned to Mister Gardner and me, “I’m not leading the prayer, so just pray however the Spirit moves you.” He then bowed his head and began moving his lips. Realizing I was on my own, I lowered my head, closed my eyes and mumbled the Lords Prayer, which was the only adult prayer I knew. When I finished it was so still and quiet that I began to think that everyone else had left and I was all alone. I opened one of my eyes and saw that everyone was still there. Finally, my Dad said “Amen” and everyone followed with their own ‘Amen’.

 

 Before we left my Dad asked if there was anything that we could pick up for the old man in Trinidad.  Since we would be coming back this way we could drop it off.

 

“Everything I need is in the sack that I was carrying.”

 

“Then, can we leave a donation?” Mister Gardner asked.

 

“No, I pay for everything from my Social Security.  If there were poor people here you could leave a donation for them, but there is nobody living around here now except me.  Besides I am sure you have many people in need where you live.” He paused and then added, “But, since you are going on to Trinidad perhaps you could let me ride with you? I have not been to Mass for a long time and tomorrow is Sunday and I know the Priest there.”

 

“We’d be happy to,” My Dad said.

 

When we finally arrived in Trinidad we let the old man off in front of the Catholic Church. We went to the brick yard and had to wait a long time for the bricks to be loaded onto the back of the truck. Brick.  We hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so Mister Gardner suggested we have something to eat at a place called The Round Up Cafe. It had a sign outside with a cowboy twirling a lariat around his head. Mister Gardner said it was the best place in Trinidad for steaks.  My Dad said he wasn’t all that hungry, but Mister Gardner had a steak and potatoes and I had a cheeseburger, fries and a Cherry Coke and we both had big slices of apple pie for dessert. It was late afternoon by the time we started back home. 

 

We were a few miles out of Trinidad when my Dad said that we should stop in El Crucero on our way back. 

 

“Why? The old man isn’t there,” Mister Gardner replied.

 

“I think we should leave him some of our bricks so he can use them to shore up the foundation of the Church. If he was there he probably wouldn’t accept them, but this way he won’t know for sure that it was us.”

 

“He’ll probably think it was God,” Mister Gardner laughed.

 

“You mean, we should use our bricks for someone else’s Church?” I asked

 

“The old man told us the Church is open to everyone, so why shouldn’t we make a contribution,” My Dad said.  “I can’t make the decision on my own, but since you’re the Chair of the Building Committee…” My Dad’s voice trailed off.

 

“Well, as the Chair of the Building Committee, I agree. We can make up the difference when we go back for the second load next week.”

 

“We can both kick in to cover the cost.”

 

We pulled over next to the Church and unloaded some bricks. I even carried some myself. By the time we finished it was getting dark.

 

After we were back on the road I said,  “Look, the Sangre de Cristos are blood red.”

 

 “It’s the light from the sun that’s setting behind the mountains,” my Dad replied. 

 

“Why don’t the mountains stop the light?”

 

“They bend it, but they can’t block the light completely.”

 

“It’s also called Alpenglow,” Mister Gardner said.

 

“Alpenglow?”

 

“It’s named after the Alps. That’s what they call the mountains in Switzerland.”

 

As I looked at the mountains I wondered if the Vaqueros had been Swiss and not Mexicans they would have called the mountains the Alpenglows instead of the Sangre de Cristos? I was glad that hadn’t happened. Finally, the red disappeared and the only light was from our truck’s headlights as they bored a tunnel through the darkness. 

 

Mister Gardner nudged me with his elbow and said, “Do you want to see heaven?”

 

“You can’t see heaven,” I declared. 

 

“Sure, we can.” He stopped the truck right in the middle of the road.  Then he pushed something on the dashboard and the headlights went out.  Suddenly, about a jillion lights appeared. “See, heaven has been there all the time, but we couldn’t see it because of the sun and then our headlights.”

 

“But those are stars,” I protested.

 

“Stars are heavenly bodies,” my Dad said. I turned to ask him what he meant, but he was looking out the window with a smile on his face and a toothpick between his lips.