Father Dominic's Garden
by James McPherson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story of patience and hope, and a dying priest's love for his garden.
_____________________________________________________________________
Small, and ruggedly imperfect in shape - rockery tae the east, greenhouse tae the west - smelling of camellia and rose in the summer, viola and clematis in winter - the tiny garden in the church grounds was a constant source of joy for him - and the flowers… well, they were his thing ye see - his real passion. It started as a reluctant hobby - therapy for his ailing limbs - quickly developing wings - soaring like the angel Raphael himself - aroma, touch, and heaven on earth inspiration tae Father Dominic - his private universe - teeming wae life, and as beautifully volatile as mother nature herself.
From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning - that first instance when dreams ended and the ice water splash of consciousness began, Father Dom thought about nothing other than sitting on his pine bench - sweet - sharp - cleansing - breath by the lungful, in his garden. He rarely remembered dreams now anyway - occasionally - just sometimes - explosions of light in his head - loud bangs - boom, boom, boom - gaunt humanity - tiny screaming faces - abrupt silence - silence louder than the screams sometimes. Very infrequent these days, but that was his dreams - then he’d wake up - wake up wae a start, sweat soaking his pyjamas - just things he saw in his sleep - few and far between now, but still hanging over him like a spectre he couldnae quite put a name tae - and the garden, the thought of it, helped sooth his ragged nerves.
Mornings were awkward for Father Dom - he needed help - help tae get dressed - black shorts, socks, trousers and belt - collarless shirt, black - waistcoat of worsted wool, jacket the same - black, black - black-black-black. The white clerical collar, symbol of the divine, was missing. Father Dom didnae wear one now - just like his memories, the white band was gone.
His helper was young and female - Krystiana - she’d breeze intae his room at the same time each morning - the swish of clean cotton-polyester from her uniform, observant smile, skin under her eyes scrunched-up - blue eyes - reflections intae a kind soul he guessed. She had a purpose wae every step she took.
‘Morneeng Fazzeer…’ - stride and swish and movement -
‘You need shave zees morneeng Fazzeer…’ - skin of lavender, breath of mint - ‘Still sleepy Fazzeer..?’ - hands soft and slightly cold -
‘A cloth for face Fazzeer…’ - water lukewarm and fresh, and smelling slightly of coconut -
‘Careful Fazzeer, careful not be late for breakfazt…’ Gentle persistence and husky morning voice, light snap of thin white rubber next tae skin -
The violence was swift and loud and over before he even realised he’d done it. A grunt - a push - a shove wae a hand that seemed tae come from nowhere - his hand - wet from the basin of water - the ring his departed sister gave him one birthday a long time ago, glistening bright on his finger. He didnae know why his hand suddenly shot out from nowhere - why it happened - all he knew was it happened, and he had as little control over it as Krystiana herself. The girl was embarrassed more than anything - knocked over from the shove, she got up quickly and smiled at Father Dom - waved a slim rubber coated finger at him, pointy finger, dripping wet from the basin - told him he was a bad Father, and no tae dae it again. He nodded agreement - tried tae smile back, but it was difficult for him - they’d been here before ye see, and both himself and Krystiana knew it would most likely happen again. He wished for tears on his face - prayed for them - demonstrate shame at his lack of control - without tears she would never know just how much his actions hurt him. But tears never came, and the thing was over now - she helped him dry wet and trembling hands wae his face towel, stood beside him - removed her gloves, slid her hand under his arm and held ontae him - they walked out of his room together and down the corridor of the dorm towards the breakfast area. Just like father and daughter he thought - just like the daughter he never had - never would have.
Breakfast was a simple affair for Father Dom - just porridge, toast and a pot of tea - sometimes a pancake wae his tea - a pancake when Joan was on the morning shift. He liked Joan - she was much older than Krystiana - uniform buttons straining against layers of fat, and a happiness in her heart that seemed tae leap out the kitchen. He liked his pancake when she was around - liked the sound, the hiss on the griddle when she turned it over, sugary sweet smell enticing him, dancing wae his patience - liked just sitting at the table eating, drinking, and thinking about his wonderful garden. She’d come up tae him - Joan - sit wae him sometimes - pat him on the shoulder and bring her face close tae his;
‘How’s yer pancake Father?’
He’d nod - make the shape of a smile in his head - try tae bring the smile tae his lips. Joan understood - she’d nod herself, maybe pat down a loose strand of his thinning hair and go back tae the kitchen. He’d hear her whistling a tune tae herself - always whistled the same tune over and over. He didnae know what it was called, but liked it anyway - it meant Joan was near and that was good enough. Other times, when Joan brought his pancake, she’d sit down beside him and tell him things - stories - familiar stories in a sense. She’d tell him all about this fair haired young priest she knew once - strong - energetic - and according tae Joan even handsome, in his own unapproachable way.
She was much younger then, a girl really when the priest came tae her parish. He’d been a missionary for a time - somewhere in Africa she said. He was a fine young man so she said - settled in quickly, spent many happy years wae his flock in the parish. She’d speak about this man in glowing terms - exaggerate - expansive hand gestures - smiling straight intae Father Dom’s face as she did so - but she never ever finished the story about the priest - what became of him - Father Dom never heard the ending - she kept that part all tae herself. He tried tae paint a picture in his mind of this flawless priest she spoke of, but couldnae quite manage it - it was hard for him tae imagine youth and strength now - weak and withered is what he felt - what he saw in the mirror - in his mind - but he liked the story, enjoyed the way Joan told it.
After breakfast, Krystiana’s golden hair came intae his line of sight again - she’d been waiting for him tae finish - pacing up and down the corridor between dorm and dinning room, checking her watch anxiously.
‘Almozt ten Fazzeer, time for mazz!’
Father Dom nodded.
‘You like go to mazz Fazzeer?’
Father Dom nodded again - got up slowly from his chair at the table and moved cautiously towards her. Krystiana met him half way - put her arm in his, and they left.
He was a walker - walkers sat in the second and third row of the church - the front, near the alter, was reserved for wheelchairs. It made a great deal of sense - sense tae the army of nuns who helped ferry in the afflicted - priests and parishioners. The sisters didnae mind which row the non-afflicted sat in ye understand - in their eyes everyone was equal under God’s roof - every soul that is except wheelchairs and walkers.
Father Dom sat in the third row, listening tae the gentle clamour of hushed whispers rebound off stone and glass - smell of incense - spit of burning candle-wax - tall windows, diffused light - easy on failing eyesight - ears tuned in when the din turned tae muffled silence. The entrance procession down the central aisle began - holy sisters, like soft-shoed sentinels, guarded the pews - ministers - servers - carrying the alter cross, candles, book of gospels - and finally the priest, white albus, purple chasuble, embroidered cross, following slowly behind.
Mass began soon after - Eucharist - words echoing around the hall - Devine Liturgy mumbled and bold - discordant but unfailing. The words of the mass flowed through Father Dom - danced through his brain like the finest poetry, but words, simple responses, never reached his tongue. He should have felt disappointment at this, but he wasnae - he was used tae it now. He just listened in silence tae the priest saying mass - knew the man - a retired brother in the initial stages - mild stages, of his affliction - listened tae his holy brother fluff the sacred words, miss out on the Homily, hands shaking so badly during Communion that a server had tae help him steady the body of Christ ontae the tongues of a nervous congregation. Father Dom’s heart bled for the man - understood his pain, for he’d been there himself no so very long ago.
His holy brother the priest was a kind man - good soul - the nervous type, even in good health - never grumpy or complaining about his recent affliction, and he would even occasionally come and sit on Father Dom’s pine bench in the garden and pass a few moments wae him. Watching the man sweat and struggle up there in front of the flock was as painful for him as it undoubtedly was for the holy brother himself. Anger - trembling, red-faced rage suddenly gripped Father Dom - hand shaking like one of his shrubs in the wind, he gripped the pew in front of him - shudder - murmur - clatter - wood on stone - bang, banging… banging like his dreams. Anger at everything, in a rush - age - affliction - pointlessness - waiting for death - wishing for it - all closed in on him - the walls seemed tae fall from the sky - roof black and merciless, came down on top of him.
A hand on his shoulder - gripped tight - bony fingers pressing on his deltoid. He looked up tae find one of the sisters looking down at him - stern, but wae worry in her eyes. She then went and spoiled it by raising the other hand tae her lips - sharp index finger pressed up against them - angry whisper.
‘Shhhhh… Please Father, be quiet, have some respect!’ As an afterthought she added, ‘Are you alright, do you want anything?’
Father Dom shook his head - he didnae want anything, or at least nothing the holy sister could give him. She meant well he supposed, and his truculence was directed at a higher authority than the sisterhood anyway. What he wanted, what he prayed for every day, was his memories. All he ever asked for was some kind of recollection back. A whole chunk of his life, forty years, was missing - just woke up one morning, opened his eyes after a long sleep and the world he was familiar wae had all gone. He blamed himself at first - wondered how he could be so stupid tae allow something as precious tae just vanish intae thin air like that. He was angry at his loss, because he didnae ask for confusion - silence - didnae want tae live inside his hard bone cranium shell, but that’s how it was. That’s what he’d been given, and it was a curse - but also in a strange way a great opportunity tae explore another kind of world - the one inside himself.
At first, after his long sleep, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was darkness - a void. The void felt uncomfortable - felt like death. Fear - vulnerability overtook him - he began tae realise just how human he was. It occurred tae him that the desire tae walk the earth - be sucking in the air, living, was stronger than the word - his faith. He never wanted tae close his eyes again after that - was ashamed of himself.
Time - fatigue - closed his eyes.
Fear of death opened them again.
That’s how it was - how it stayed for a long time.
Father Dom’s mind was wandering again. The holy sister’s fingers dug deeper intae his shoulder muscle, and the residue of fear and guilt from his thoughts remained in his gut. He became calm once more however - nodding respectfully tae his veiled overseer. The holy sister released her grip - patted his shoulder.
‘That’s more like it father… much better… much better…’
When the mass ended Krystiana appeared - blond hair illuminating the narrow archway by the confessional. She had a small bag over her shoulder. He slid out of his seat, took her arm in the familiar way and they left through a side door - down a dark little corridor, and outside intae the grounds - cold, wae the promise of morning sun warming face and hands. Krystiana was silent during the short walk along the gravel path that led tae his garden. Once there, she helped him sit down on his pine bench and handed him the bag she’d been carrying.
‘Your sandwiches Fazzeer, and flazk of tea!’
He nodded his thanks tae the girl - mouthed his appreciation, but the words never arrived as usual. She waved goodbye and left wae the promise she‘d be back after lunch - just tae check on him ye understand. Father Dom let out a silent sigh of relief - his garden at last - he could think clearly here - didnae fear the dark. The early sunshine got warmer by the minute - helped him remember how light came back intae his dreams.
In the beginning, the light was just a pinpoint in the far distance of his dark universe - coming closer - closer - closer still - until the pinpoint of light was as large as a tree, and under the tree sat a young man - boy really, wae fair hair flowing tae his shoulders, just like the priest in Joan’s story, and a cracked tooth at the front of his mouth. The boy’s face had a lived-in look, convincing Father Dom he was real - not just some angelic fantasy.
The boy at first was a frightening reminder of the darkness - a melancholy place Father Dom went tae sometimes - terrible place, where the heat was like a furnace and the stick-thin hands of dark-skinned children held out empty bowls - bang, bang, boom, boom - flies scurrying across the tight skin and bone of their faces. A skeleton of a girl suckled at the dry breast of her dead mother. Babies dying where they lay - in heaps - and he was helpless, couldnae protect them. It was a place Father Dom dreaded, but felt drawn tae, and his morbid fascination would have kept him there forever if it hadnae been for the boy. The boy by some miracle, or trick of the mind, had the power tae lure Father Dom away from the darkness. He had a strength in him that seemed tae shine brighter than the tree sometimes. Gregarious, full of hope, he talked tae Father Dom all the time about the missions - saving souls - lives - Africa. It was the boy who came up wae the idea of the garden - planted the first seedling in his head - an idea that would grow - nourish - develop intae something quite beautiful.
Saved Father Dom’s life - his soul.
Every day - season upon season - ye would find Father Dom in that wonderful garden of his. Slow - careful - ponderous even, he went about his work - planting - pruning - growing - tirelessly ministering the old, the withered - preparing, encouraging the new - a shepherd tae his flock. Then one day, one summer, the sun high in the sky and the garden in full bloom - death came tae Father Dom - came as a surprise - sneaked up on him out of a clear blue sky almost. He wore his straw hat wae the eccentric green band that day - shade from the heat - welcome contrast tae his black clergy uniform, Krystiana picked the hat out especially. His heart stopped beating that day.
After his funeral, Krystiana and Joan asked around - pestered friends - visited old parishioners - pleaded wae bosses at the Sisters Of The Mission care home. Between them both women raised a modest sum of money. They used the money tae buy a new hardwood bench for Father Dominic’s garden - on the bench they inserted a plaque wae a photograph - personal tribute tae a special old man. The photograph the two women chose though wasnae of a frail old Father Dom, pottering about in his beloved garden - but an old black and white image, buried away in a drawer somewhere. In the photograph was a young, strong Father Dom - boy really - African missionary, wae fair hair flowing tae his shoulders and a cracked tooth at the front of his mouth.
‘Be Joyful in hope, patient in affliction…’
(Romans 12:12)
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story of patience and hope, and a dying priest's love for his garden.
_____________________________________________________________________
Small, and ruggedly imperfect in shape - rockery tae the east, greenhouse tae the west - smelling of camellia and rose in the summer, viola and clematis in winter - the tiny garden in the church grounds was a constant source of joy for him - and the flowers… well, they were his thing ye see - his real passion. It started as a reluctant hobby - therapy for his ailing limbs - quickly developing wings - soaring like the angel Raphael himself - aroma, touch, and heaven on earth inspiration tae Father Dominic - his private universe - teeming wae life, and as beautifully volatile as mother nature herself.
From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning - that first instance when dreams ended and the ice water splash of consciousness began, Father Dom thought about nothing other than sitting on his pine bench - sweet - sharp - cleansing - breath by the lungful, in his garden. He rarely remembered dreams now anyway - occasionally - just sometimes - explosions of light in his head - loud bangs - boom, boom, boom - gaunt humanity - tiny screaming faces - abrupt silence - silence louder than the screams sometimes. Very infrequent these days, but that was his dreams - then he’d wake up - wake up wae a start, sweat soaking his pyjamas - just things he saw in his sleep - few and far between now, but still hanging over him like a spectre he couldnae quite put a name tae - and the garden, the thought of it, helped sooth his ragged nerves.
Mornings were awkward for Father Dom - he needed help - help tae get dressed - black shorts, socks, trousers and belt - collarless shirt, black - waistcoat of worsted wool, jacket the same - black, black - black-black-black. The white clerical collar, symbol of the divine, was missing. Father Dom didnae wear one now - just like his memories, the white band was gone.
His helper was young and female - Krystiana - she’d breeze intae his room at the same time each morning - the swish of clean cotton-polyester from her uniform, observant smile, skin under her eyes scrunched-up - blue eyes - reflections intae a kind soul he guessed. She had a purpose wae every step she took.
‘Morneeng Fazzeer…’ - stride and swish and movement -
‘You need shave zees morneeng Fazzeer…’ - skin of lavender, breath of mint - ‘Still sleepy Fazzeer..?’ - hands soft and slightly cold -
‘A cloth for face Fazzeer…’ - water lukewarm and fresh, and smelling slightly of coconut -
‘Careful Fazzeer, careful not be late for breakfazt…’ Gentle persistence and husky morning voice, light snap of thin white rubber next tae skin -
The violence was swift and loud and over before he even realised he’d done it. A grunt - a push - a shove wae a hand that seemed tae come from nowhere - his hand - wet from the basin of water - the ring his departed sister gave him one birthday a long time ago, glistening bright on his finger. He didnae know why his hand suddenly shot out from nowhere - why it happened - all he knew was it happened, and he had as little control over it as Krystiana herself. The girl was embarrassed more than anything - knocked over from the shove, she got up quickly and smiled at Father Dom - waved a slim rubber coated finger at him, pointy finger, dripping wet from the basin - told him he was a bad Father, and no tae dae it again. He nodded agreement - tried tae smile back, but it was difficult for him - they’d been here before ye see, and both himself and Krystiana knew it would most likely happen again. He wished for tears on his face - prayed for them - demonstrate shame at his lack of control - without tears she would never know just how much his actions hurt him. But tears never came, and the thing was over now - she helped him dry wet and trembling hands wae his face towel, stood beside him - removed her gloves, slid her hand under his arm and held ontae him - they walked out of his room together and down the corridor of the dorm towards the breakfast area. Just like father and daughter he thought - just like the daughter he never had - never would have.
Breakfast was a simple affair for Father Dom - just porridge, toast and a pot of tea - sometimes a pancake wae his tea - a pancake when Joan was on the morning shift. He liked Joan - she was much older than Krystiana - uniform buttons straining against layers of fat, and a happiness in her heart that seemed tae leap out the kitchen. He liked his pancake when she was around - liked the sound, the hiss on the griddle when she turned it over, sugary sweet smell enticing him, dancing wae his patience - liked just sitting at the table eating, drinking, and thinking about his wonderful garden. She’d come up tae him - Joan - sit wae him sometimes - pat him on the shoulder and bring her face close tae his;
‘How’s yer pancake Father?’
He’d nod - make the shape of a smile in his head - try tae bring the smile tae his lips. Joan understood - she’d nod herself, maybe pat down a loose strand of his thinning hair and go back tae the kitchen. He’d hear her whistling a tune tae herself - always whistled the same tune over and over. He didnae know what it was called, but liked it anyway - it meant Joan was near and that was good enough. Other times, when Joan brought his pancake, she’d sit down beside him and tell him things - stories - familiar stories in a sense. She’d tell him all about this fair haired young priest she knew once - strong - energetic - and according tae Joan even handsome, in his own unapproachable way.
She was much younger then, a girl really when the priest came tae her parish. He’d been a missionary for a time - somewhere in Africa she said. He was a fine young man so she said - settled in quickly, spent many happy years wae his flock in the parish. She’d speak about this man in glowing terms - exaggerate - expansive hand gestures - smiling straight intae Father Dom’s face as she did so - but she never ever finished the story about the priest - what became of him - Father Dom never heard the ending - she kept that part all tae herself. He tried tae paint a picture in his mind of this flawless priest she spoke of, but couldnae quite manage it - it was hard for him tae imagine youth and strength now - weak and withered is what he felt - what he saw in the mirror - in his mind - but he liked the story, enjoyed the way Joan told it.
After breakfast, Krystiana’s golden hair came intae his line of sight again - she’d been waiting for him tae finish - pacing up and down the corridor between dorm and dinning room, checking her watch anxiously.
‘Almozt ten Fazzeer, time for mazz!’
Father Dom nodded.
‘You like go to mazz Fazzeer?’
Father Dom nodded again - got up slowly from his chair at the table and moved cautiously towards her. Krystiana met him half way - put her arm in his, and they left.
He was a walker - walkers sat in the second and third row of the church - the front, near the alter, was reserved for wheelchairs. It made a great deal of sense - sense tae the army of nuns who helped ferry in the afflicted - priests and parishioners. The sisters didnae mind which row the non-afflicted sat in ye understand - in their eyes everyone was equal under God’s roof - every soul that is except wheelchairs and walkers.
Father Dom sat in the third row, listening tae the gentle clamour of hushed whispers rebound off stone and glass - smell of incense - spit of burning candle-wax - tall windows, diffused light - easy on failing eyesight - ears tuned in when the din turned tae muffled silence. The entrance procession down the central aisle began - holy sisters, like soft-shoed sentinels, guarded the pews - ministers - servers - carrying the alter cross, candles, book of gospels - and finally the priest, white albus, purple chasuble, embroidered cross, following slowly behind.
Mass began soon after - Eucharist - words echoing around the hall - Devine Liturgy mumbled and bold - discordant but unfailing. The words of the mass flowed through Father Dom - danced through his brain like the finest poetry, but words, simple responses, never reached his tongue. He should have felt disappointment at this, but he wasnae - he was used tae it now. He just listened in silence tae the priest saying mass - knew the man - a retired brother in the initial stages - mild stages, of his affliction - listened tae his holy brother fluff the sacred words, miss out on the Homily, hands shaking so badly during Communion that a server had tae help him steady the body of Christ ontae the tongues of a nervous congregation. Father Dom’s heart bled for the man - understood his pain, for he’d been there himself no so very long ago.
His holy brother the priest was a kind man - good soul - the nervous type, even in good health - never grumpy or complaining about his recent affliction, and he would even occasionally come and sit on Father Dom’s pine bench in the garden and pass a few moments wae him. Watching the man sweat and struggle up there in front of the flock was as painful for him as it undoubtedly was for the holy brother himself. Anger - trembling, red-faced rage suddenly gripped Father Dom - hand shaking like one of his shrubs in the wind, he gripped the pew in front of him - shudder - murmur - clatter - wood on stone - bang, banging… banging like his dreams. Anger at everything, in a rush - age - affliction - pointlessness - waiting for death - wishing for it - all closed in on him - the walls seemed tae fall from the sky - roof black and merciless, came down on top of him.
A hand on his shoulder - gripped tight - bony fingers pressing on his deltoid. He looked up tae find one of the sisters looking down at him - stern, but wae worry in her eyes. She then went and spoiled it by raising the other hand tae her lips - sharp index finger pressed up against them - angry whisper.
‘Shhhhh… Please Father, be quiet, have some respect!’ As an afterthought she added, ‘Are you alright, do you want anything?’
Father Dom shook his head - he didnae want anything, or at least nothing the holy sister could give him. She meant well he supposed, and his truculence was directed at a higher authority than the sisterhood anyway. What he wanted, what he prayed for every day, was his memories. All he ever asked for was some kind of recollection back. A whole chunk of his life, forty years, was missing - just woke up one morning, opened his eyes after a long sleep and the world he was familiar wae had all gone. He blamed himself at first - wondered how he could be so stupid tae allow something as precious tae just vanish intae thin air like that. He was angry at his loss, because he didnae ask for confusion - silence - didnae want tae live inside his hard bone cranium shell, but that’s how it was. That’s what he’d been given, and it was a curse - but also in a strange way a great opportunity tae explore another kind of world - the one inside himself.
At first, after his long sleep, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was darkness - a void. The void felt uncomfortable - felt like death. Fear - vulnerability overtook him - he began tae realise just how human he was. It occurred tae him that the desire tae walk the earth - be sucking in the air, living, was stronger than the word - his faith. He never wanted tae close his eyes again after that - was ashamed of himself.
Time - fatigue - closed his eyes.
Fear of death opened them again.
That’s how it was - how it stayed for a long time.
Father Dom’s mind was wandering again. The holy sister’s fingers dug deeper intae his shoulder muscle, and the residue of fear and guilt from his thoughts remained in his gut. He became calm once more however - nodding respectfully tae his veiled overseer. The holy sister released her grip - patted his shoulder.
‘That’s more like it father… much better… much better…’
When the mass ended Krystiana appeared - blond hair illuminating the narrow archway by the confessional. She had a small bag over her shoulder. He slid out of his seat, took her arm in the familiar way and they left through a side door - down a dark little corridor, and outside intae the grounds - cold, wae the promise of morning sun warming face and hands. Krystiana was silent during the short walk along the gravel path that led tae his garden. Once there, she helped him sit down on his pine bench and handed him the bag she’d been carrying.
‘Your sandwiches Fazzeer, and flazk of tea!’
He nodded his thanks tae the girl - mouthed his appreciation, but the words never arrived as usual. She waved goodbye and left wae the promise she‘d be back after lunch - just tae check on him ye understand. Father Dom let out a silent sigh of relief - his garden at last - he could think clearly here - didnae fear the dark. The early sunshine got warmer by the minute - helped him remember how light came back intae his dreams.
In the beginning, the light was just a pinpoint in the far distance of his dark universe - coming closer - closer - closer still - until the pinpoint of light was as large as a tree, and under the tree sat a young man - boy really, wae fair hair flowing tae his shoulders, just like the priest in Joan’s story, and a cracked tooth at the front of his mouth. The boy’s face had a lived-in look, convincing Father Dom he was real - not just some angelic fantasy.
The boy at first was a frightening reminder of the darkness - a melancholy place Father Dom went tae sometimes - terrible place, where the heat was like a furnace and the stick-thin hands of dark-skinned children held out empty bowls - bang, bang, boom, boom - flies scurrying across the tight skin and bone of their faces. A skeleton of a girl suckled at the dry breast of her dead mother. Babies dying where they lay - in heaps - and he was helpless, couldnae protect them. It was a place Father Dom dreaded, but felt drawn tae, and his morbid fascination would have kept him there forever if it hadnae been for the boy. The boy by some miracle, or trick of the mind, had the power tae lure Father Dom away from the darkness. He had a strength in him that seemed tae shine brighter than the tree sometimes. Gregarious, full of hope, he talked tae Father Dom all the time about the missions - saving souls - lives - Africa. It was the boy who came up wae the idea of the garden - planted the first seedling in his head - an idea that would grow - nourish - develop intae something quite beautiful.
Saved Father Dom’s life - his soul.
Every day - season upon season - ye would find Father Dom in that wonderful garden of his. Slow - careful - ponderous even, he went about his work - planting - pruning - growing - tirelessly ministering the old, the withered - preparing, encouraging the new - a shepherd tae his flock. Then one day, one summer, the sun high in the sky and the garden in full bloom - death came tae Father Dom - came as a surprise - sneaked up on him out of a clear blue sky almost. He wore his straw hat wae the eccentric green band that day - shade from the heat - welcome contrast tae his black clergy uniform, Krystiana picked the hat out especially. His heart stopped beating that day.
After his funeral, Krystiana and Joan asked around - pestered friends - visited old parishioners - pleaded wae bosses at the Sisters Of The Mission care home. Between them both women raised a modest sum of money. They used the money tae buy a new hardwood bench for Father Dominic’s garden - on the bench they inserted a plaque wae a photograph - personal tribute tae a special old man. The photograph the two women chose though wasnae of a frail old Father Dom, pottering about in his beloved garden - but an old black and white image, buried away in a drawer somewhere. In the photograph was a young, strong Father Dom - boy really - African missionary, wae fair hair flowing tae his shoulders and a cracked tooth at the front of his mouth.
‘Be Joyful in hope, patient in affliction…’
(Romans 12:12)
About the Author
Glasgow-born James McPherson is a fifty-something single Dad, who gave up his career as a senior care worker a few years back to bring up is daughter. "I've been writing for about ten years," he tells us, "but I really just started taking it seriously three years ago. I've got the bug now. This is all I want to do!"
Among his work so far, James has completed three novels, the most recent of which is Lucifer And Auld Lang Syne.
Among his work so far, James has completed three novels, the most recent of which is Lucifer And Auld Lang Syne.