"Thirst"

  THIRST a short story

          “O God…like a dry, worn-out waterless land, my soul is searching for you.”   Ps. 63:1

At two p.m. Paul Johnston sat in his hot apartment in Charlotteville. For relief he walked onto his

balcony and peered at the heat waves rising from the asphalt shingles and distorting two churches: one with a cross, the other a lone steeple.

An ex-Catholic. Paul wondered which church was Catholic. A Sunday school nun told him fifteen years ago; a Catholic Church has a crucifix.

He had always been tender about church. In adolescence he had quarreled with his pastor over attending Sunday Mass. Eventually he stopped, but he still longed for fellowship, so he shopped several churches.

Now at thirty on a muggy day, he was still having doubts about which one was the true church.

He was going to an evangelical church for which he was willing to spread the word in the country.

His pastor’s last words to Paul were “I know you can do it. Have faith!”

Faith? thought Paul. Do I have that? But he could not ruminate now. He picked up his Bible and magazines and descended the stairs. As he opened the door, the heat blasted him. His car was an oven. As sweat beaded on his forehead. he loosened his tie.

The landscape pined for water. Drooping poplars lined the road. Caked mudflats circled a tiny pond.

Paul clicked on the radio at CJOM. “Twenty-twenty weather,” a voice crackled. It’s going to be hot-mid thirties. Sunny with a slim possibility of rain.”

The evangelical’s throat was parched. There was no service station in sight. Suddenly just over the hill he spotted a church with a pump beside a sign that read “Church of the Good Shepherd. Mass Sunday, 10 A.M.

Paul hesitated-a Catholic Church, he thought. But he was so thirsty he would go anywhere for a drink.

He parked his car by the old pump. He got out and pushed the handle up and down. The pump wheezed, gasped, and spit out red water pooled in his hands. Can’t drink that, he thought. Try the church.

Paul pushed against the squeaking door. On the periodical stand at the back was Our Sunday Visitor headlining an article “Where is the Truth?” But nothing could distract Paul from getting water. The holy water fountain held only a parched sponge. Then he spotted the baptismal fount, but it was dry too.

Paul looked up at the red sanctuary lamp signifying the Real Presence; the air felt cooler. Then a tide of guilt rushed through him, and he ran from the church and drove further into the countryside.

After fifteen minutes the seeker had composted himself. He parked his car a half a mile from a farmhouse. Soon he was knocking on the door.

“Good afternoon, madam. Hot, isn’t it?” Paul said.

“Well, we might get some rain,” she responded.

Then Paul opened his Bible at Jn.7:37-38. “I’m just travelling through the country sharing this word from Jesus: ‘If any man is thirsty, let him come to me….’.”

“Save your breath, sir. This is a Catholic home!” She slammed the door in Paul’s face.

He was used to rebuffs, but today tired and thirsty he felt the rejection. Where could he get a drink?

Back in the car Paul drove up to a man in black slacks and white T-shirt, watering his garden.

“Hello!” the gardener said.

“Hello!”

“Hot day!”

“Yes!” said Paul. Could I trouble you for some water.”

“Sure thing. Come up to the pump. It has the coldest water.”

 Paul gulped down the water.

“How’s that?” asked the gardener.

“Just fine! Thanks!”

“Going far?” the gardener asked.

“No. Around here,” the evangelist answered. Decision was sticking out of his pocket.

Thunder rumbled above them. Black clouds gathered.

“Is your car nearby? If not, you’ll be drenched. Come up to the house until the rain stops.”

“Might as well,” said Paul.

“Good!” his new friend added.

Soon Paul was inside the parlor. A five-piece settee graced the room. The end tables were immaculate-no dry dust from outside. Above the fireplace was a picture of Jesus holding a lamb.

I’ m in a Catholic home, he thought. Must get out here!

But he hesitated as the wind blew open the door and cleaned the dust from the loveseat. Fifteen minutes later the owner appeared carrying a sweating pitcher of water. Paul saw only one thing: his friend’s roman collar. “You’re a priest!” Paul blurted out.

“Yes, my name is Father Christopher. I’m tending my brother’s house. I’m on my way to say Evening Mass.”

“You tricked me!” Paul interrupted.

“Perhaps. I sensed you were lost in other ways. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“I don’t know what to say, Father”

“Tell me about yourself.”

Paull hesitated. He felt angry but was relaxing with the understanding priest.

“I was once a practicing Catholic. Stopped going to Mass at fifteen. Started in an evangelical church but never felt comfortable.”

“We are all pilgrims, Paul. Sometimes we stray from the path, but the Holy Spirit calls us back.

The two talked for forty-five minutes as rain clouds gathered.

Finally, Father Christopher said, “Perhaps you’ll come and me see at St. Mark’s in Charlotteville.”

“Yes, I would like that,” answered Paul.

Rain poured from the heavens, quenching the earth.

“I’ll drive you back to your car, “said Father.

“Thanks”

Driving back to town Paul noticed the poplars had perked up. Water filled the mud cakes.

In Paul Johnston’s heart peace flowed like a river.

Bernard Callaghan bandscall@eastlink.ca