Clarity Through Chaos by RA Ferrell

Author:RA Ferrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2021-06-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I come alert to someone touching me; a wispy memory of the smoker surfaces and frightens me. This time, though, the person is not grabbing me, but tapping me lightly on the shoulder and speaking softly in Spanish. The words sound comforting. The voice is soft and warm. I am confused. I pull myself up and turn to face my attacker, raising my hand and getting ready to run. In that moment, I realize I have fallen asleep praying for help in the beautiful little church. My knees ache. I am getting too old for this. I have been holding my head up with my hand like a teenager trying not to fall asleep in math class. The man tapping me on the shoulder wears the telltale black suit and white collar of a priest. His warm eyes look at me expectantly. I have no idea what he is saying. I spoke some Spanish when I was working at the University of Miami but had not used it in years, except maybe to order drinks on vacation in Mexico. Cerveza and gracias are not going to help me now.

The words the priest is saying sound familiar, but I have no idea what they are. My wits were not at their sharpest after everything I have been through.

I whisper, “English?”

The young priest chuckles a little and smiles. “Oh, I am so glad you can hear me. I thought you might be deaf, and I do not know sign language. Can I help you? We cannot let people sleep in the sanctuary. I apologize, but we do not take in the homeless here. I can direct you to a homeless shelter or call the police if you are in trouble. I apologize for the Spanish. We had a lot of immigrants looking for shelter lately and I am doing my best to help them find their way.”

His appearance, the clean black suit and white starched collar, look so normal in the church. I am comforted by his presences even though he is young and asking me to leave. A strange thought about the movie Thorn Birds flits through my mind. He is pretty good looking to have given his life to the church. The thought makes me smile a little. I sit back on the wooden bench looking down at my dirty, drugged-out, barefoot appearance and stare at him, unsure of what to say, embarrassed. Where do I start? How much should I tell this man of the cloth? I smooth my hair down and try to find the words to explain how I came here. I can do this. For Paul, I must be strong.

“I am an American. I do not speak Spanish or need a homeless shelter. My name is Stella,” I speak to him slowly, trying out the words. “I need the police.”

He smiles at me like I am a child and offers me his hand helping me to rise form the bench.

The police officers came to the church and took down my story.

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