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RUBRIC
THE STORY OF A SON


THE FOURTH DAY
The story of a son who never stopped being a son


I decided to ask my brother how people follow Jesus.

He asked me again and I told him what I thought: Mom says the rosary. Dad goes to mass and takes his hat off in the countryside.

He laughed. Do you know what a father does when the bells ring at noon? He stops the rush of his work, takes off his hat and says softly: My Lord, you are greater than my work. And do you know what Mom says when she picks up her rosary? O Lady, teach me to be a daughter so that I can learn to be a mother.

I wanted to ask everyone what they were saying quietly! What do parents say at night, sitting in the living room? What does my brother say when he walks through the church door and makes the sign of the cross? What does the priest say when he kneels in front of the tabernacle? What does the friar whisper as he digs the earth? And why does he look up to heaven so often?

My brother added that there were many ways to follow him and that none was the right one.

I confess that this part wasn't much help... Where are the easy answers? What happened to the decisions that are always right and immediate? It seemed so easy when my father came home in the morning and said: today we're going to pick apples instead of plowing. His sure voice seemed so easy. Why does mine tremble?

I want to ask how I should follow Jesus, but I don't do it. I'm ashamed and afraid to ask because verbalizing is already committing me and I don't know what the clauses of the contract are.

My father's firmness seemed so easy... but there was always something in his tired eyes. Perhaps a vigil, I don't know if a fear.

I climbed a small hill. The hill my grandfather used to climb in the evening. He would stand, as if suspended, on that high place, gazing longingly at the countryside and the city. Close enough not to forget who he was. Far enough away to gain a fair distance from reality.

It was there, on that hill, that I gained his courage, or at least his desire. Distance reminded me that I am a son. It showed me that I need someone with whom I can learn to listen to the voice from on high and to my own voice.

I went to see my brother again: he had already helped many people to do this. He was experienced and wise.

We set a day and a time. He asked me about my thirst and we wanted to understand where it was coming from and where it was taking me. I told him what I had been saying quietly: now that I have you, where do you want me, Lord? Where do you want me to be an orchard? Where do you want me in the place of men?

There were several days and hours set aside: the conversations in which we made progress, those in which we didn't conclude anything. The conversations in which I was full of courage and those in which I found no reason to be. Sometimes there were answers, other times we ended up with more questions. Sometimes we laughed, sometimes we cried. But in all of them there was my desire to listen and respond and his desire to help listen and help respond.

Today was our last conversation. As we said goodbye, he said: now that you have him and know where he wants you; now that you have him and want to serve him, keep the peace he has given you and don't look back.

Text by Verónica Benedito, asm
Voice of Fausto Raínho Ferreira


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