The Praying Well: Pray That No One Is Listening

By J.L. Olguin

Sixty years ago, an evil made its presence known in a closely knit southside Chicago neighborhood.  In taking the form of a sacred figure, it lured hundreds of parishioners into its house of prayer and worship and promised to erase the horrors of the time. 

Deep inside that sacred place, a lair stood with a secret well that granted the prayers of these desperate souls -- at a steep price unbeknownst to them.  But due to a fluke event, a young girl entraps it; and a calmness spreads over the earth for years.  

Now in the present, Little Joe Rios, a young boy must cope with the impending death of his father due to illness.  To save him?  He seeks the help of the entity in the church.  But the young girl who entrapped the evil all those years ago -- now an old woman -- seeks to stop the boy.   But he must decide what to trust in, and what is most important:  His family, his soul, or letting loose the evil upon the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JL OLGUIN
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532369315

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Rita

Prologue i

Sunday, August 5th, 1945

Within the small cramped office of La Iglesa de el Milagro, the church's founder Father Javier Sandoval de Christo sat relaxed at a small desk cluttered with envelopes and letters along with a wooden box full of papers and personal trinkets. The Father shuffled through the personal items, bringing out a letter here and a letter there from his beloved ark. As he read through the prayers, words of admiration, and letters of thanks from his parishioners, he realized the time had quickly passed since he made his way here from the deserts of central Mexico -- even quicker than he anticipated. He held out a letter from one of his most recent devoted followers, Mrs. Villaches, one of about two hundred and fifty or so souls that made it to his mass each and every week. He held the tattered paper close to his face to make out the words, but in reality, he could recite most of it from memory as it was one of the dear letters he read over and over in the lonely years here at the church.

The letters (and numbers and everything else for that matter) appeared blurry to the Father, his eyesight was getting to the point of becoming a nuisance. However, just like everything else on his ancient body, it was just another mechanical system breaking down with the passage of time. It got to the point where on occasion he couldn't make out the faces on the pews during Sunday mass, though that hardly mattered, as the same people sat in the same seats each and every week since the inception of the church -- almost three years prior.

For now though, the ailments he felt from this weary body were kept secret from his flock, as the shepherd cannot let down his guard when guiding the sheep.

The letter he picked up from his desk was written in ink, in an elegant cursive only a careful woman's hand can create. He really didn't know why he cared to read these old letters -- he received so many of them -- but these were his people, they admired him and perhaps loved him. And although he had no close relationships with any of the parishioners, they felt a close kinship with him. To him it was like a father and his children – never as equals. They obeyed his wishes without question – at least on Sundays -- as he never did see anyone outside of mass. That is the way he kept it, living a lonely and solemn life in the church. No need to complicate things while he was here.

The father put the letter down inside the box and closed the lid. He laid his hand on top of it for a second, as if having second thoughts about closing it off, then he let go. He leaned back in his chair and it gave out a loud creak as he leaned his considerable weight upon it. He lifted his arthritic leg on the table with some effort and a few grunts and leaned back with his hands folded behind his head. He winced as the prickly vibrations from his propped limb made their way through his body all the way up to his fingertips, like small shocks of static electricity dancing through his muscles. Goddamn body was failing, eyesight, legs, what was next? The Father looked up at the ceiling -- a gold colored leaf he had installed himself -- and closed his eyes. Oh well, it wouldn’t be long now, he thought.

He was alone in the church, in the quiet of the Sunday morning, alone but with the company of wind and rain vigorously shaking his beloved structure to its roots. The turbulence outside was powerful, almost as it if were demonstrating the power of nature on this very day, his important day, to those who question it. And he expected nothing less.

Mrs. Sarah Villaches, who sat in the second row of the right section each and every Sunday for the past three years had written the letter. She always sat with her husband Peter, a silver haired gentlemen -- and more recently with their son, young Peter Jr. who had returned from the war abroad. The letter had been written almost two years prior, and with it, she had brought a basket of gifts for the Father. While he received it with a smile at first, he let her know in a very direct manner that it was inappropriate for her to interact with him on a personal level. That during Sunday mass; all was worship and prayer, nothing more.

He smiled to himself as he thought of that basket, with the bottle of red wine, and a loaf of rye bread that she no doubt baked herself. It still sat in the back room, along with the others. Exactly as he had received it, except the bread was a grey rock now. He pictured her letter in his mind and could envision the words with clarity:

Dear Father Sandoval de Christo,

I know you are a busy man, and my husband Peter told me not to write to you as it may be inappropriate, but I must tell you how we feel. We all know you are serious about your privacy, but I must let you know how thankful my family and I are to you, and how we owe you everything! I know I cannot discuss this with you in person, so I am hoping you read this.

Thank you!, Thank you! Thank you for bringing this church here to our little neighborhood, We all find it very comforting to know that there is a place -- a real place of miracles! In this time of war, it is exactly what we need -- a place to pray and be heard! Since you've arrived, our lives have been filled with hope -- eternal hope, and we thank you.

But my true thanks is a selfish one, thank you for bringing our young son Peter Jr. back from the war in one piece. I knew that my prayers would be answered, but I also know that you played an important part in that -- to get my message to the Lord directly. Now my son Peter is at home, the family is at home and we are utterly and eternally grateful!

Thank you, and I will thank you at each and every mass I attend each Sunday in my prayers.

Bless you,

Mrs. Sarah Villaches

P.S. During your homily, I can almost feel the power of God working through me, that is how strong your message and your divine strength is -- that is correct -- your divine strength. We all wonder that with all of the miracles you've brought to us, that you are not merely the messenger, or the shepherd, but the creator of the miracles.

"Creator of Miracles." That is what Sarah Villaches had written -- the same thing that hundreds or thousands had written before. Not the messenger, but the creator. That’s what he lived for, the admiration and love coming direct from the soul of the people. These folks came to see him because they themselves were selfish as Sarah had written. They wanted something from him and if he could help, he would help, God willing -- so to say. Then why couldn't he be selfish as well? That was always the question, and has been for as long as he remembered. Couldn't he ask for something in return from those who attended his mass and sat in his pews and insisted that they are only here to serve the Lord (at least to themselves)?

He didn’t need a basket of bread or cheap wine, no that's not what he needed. Not a knitted blanket or quilt, or even vases of white and yellow flowers picked from the garden as he had received so many times. No, that wasn’t enough. He needed their love, their belief, and their devotion. Simple little pleasures that folks can easily part with during devastating times like these -- wartime.

The rain pattered on the windows harder now, the wind shifting directions and slamming the stained glass windows on the other side of the structure now. The image on the window of the north side of the church, whose stained glass normally shown in brightly colored reds and blues and inspired awe in the visitors each week, was now a dull and lifeless gray against the backdrop of the storm outside. Soon, very soon on this Sunday morning, cold wet weather or not, the activity would be great. The parishioners would flock to the church as they did every Sunday, except on this day it would be a double packed house.

With just one mass, there would be standing room only he joked to himself. He had invited all of his parishioners to this one congregation. One last congregation. But of course they couldn't know it would be the last. He knew his people eagerly came to him as if the man Jesus himself were giving the homily and taking names after. They wanted, wanted, and wanted. He gave and gave and gave. That was the beauty of it all -- like the perfect balance on a child's teeter tooter -- with him at one end and the parishioners on the other. Except today, he would abruptly jump off of his end.

The Father shifted his weight forward and groaned again in the process. He stood from his chair and reached into his front church to pull out the chain that hung around his neck. The chain was gold with a peculiarly shaped crucifix attached to it. He dangled it in front of his face, high up and level with his eyes as if inspecting it. The precious gold shone brightly, like sparkling diamonds at a jeweler’s counter. The chain was a solid rope, no links, nothing holding it together except a snake of pure metal. The cross, itself carved of the same pure gold, was plain, with no adornment of Jesus Christ nailed in remembrance. Instead, each of the four points ended in a graduated point – curving ever so slightly to the side.

He carefully lifted it over his clothes, keeping it visible over his black suit jacket, black shirt and collar. After a moment he walked out of the narrow door of the office and into the main church and looked upon his creation: He peered up into high arches of the ceiling, standing in awe at the thick timbers of the rafters. He had a hand in every part, from leveling those behemoth beams to staining the intricate details on the beautifully colored windows. Everything had to be perfect.

In this part of Chicago, on the near south side of the city, Catholicism was the religion of choice. Though his church followed no specific religious order, Father Sandoval fashioned his little church house in the same mold as some of the more ornate Catholic churches dotting the area. This was a necessity, as it gave a familiar feeling to those who chose to leave their old faiths behind and join his little parish.

With the war going on in Europe, the Great War as it had become known; Father Sandoval easily made his name here in this bustling neighborhood on the south side. Most families had much to worry about and much to pray about in these trying times -- with news of their dying sons flying across the ocean with increasing regularity, everyone was affected by tragedy. Even the staunchest old fool who never gave a thought to a Sunday prayer now came to Father Sandoval's church as regular as the sunrise. And though he was a foreigner from a foreign land, the people eventually welcomed him and his church to their neighborhood, to their lives, and ultimately into their intimate prayers.

The grandfather clock in his office rang out with an empty gong; he turned to look at it. Eight o'clock. One more hour and it would begin -- and begin to end. He made his way up the long aisle of pews towards the double oak doors, limping lazily along the marble tile floor. This body had forsaken him and was giving out before his eyes. He couldn't believe how fast it was happening now but he just needed it to give him a little bit more.

When he finally made it to the front, he caught his breath and leaned against the door. He peered outside through the window secretly as he had often done on past Sundays, admiring the flock from a distance. The sight outside was wonderful to the Father, but not something that surprised him in the least. The parishioners stood outside braving the torrent of rain just beyond the locked black iron gates that separated the world from his abode. The people stood out on the sidewalk quietly watching and waiting, unbothered by the weather.

The large crowd was gathered around the front gate then trailed off on the sidewalk to the north and to the south. As he watched with fascination, the downpour precluded him from seeing individuals – all he could make out was the mass of dark haunches of hundreds of bodies awaiting him underneath a canopy of umbrellas.

Let them wait, he thought. Soon enough they would be allowed to enter – and this last mass would be memorable. He smirked at the thought.

Suddenly, a heavy explosion of thunder struck close by, loud enough to cause a ringing in his old ears. He felt the reverberations through the floor and they shook him to his core. He took another peak outside: The crowd unaltered, unbothered by the ridiculous downpour and the obvious danger of the lightning from the worsening skies. At this he laughed aloud – all to himself in the echoes of the empty church.

The time was now approaching for this final congregation. And at exactly 8:30am, like on all Sundays these past three years, he would unlock the gates to let the flood in. Though on this particular morning, he would have loved to see them continue to soak in their good Sunday clothes, but timeliness was everything.

After admiring them for several more minutes, he unlatched the three locks on the door -- each requiring a key from the inside, and unhooked the thick wooden bar that ran across the span of the opening. He pulled open the doors, which swung into the church, and a cool rush of wind entered the large room immediately, blowing droplets of fine mist onto his face. As he stepped outside onto the threshold, the sky that opened to him was a dark and foreboding gray, yet flashes of light entered through thinning sections of clouds teasing of what could be on this summer morning.

He held up the large key ring as he walked, the crowd shuffling in their spaces, awaiting the dam to break. The lock on the gate gave a loud click and the chain fell to the ground like a snake slithering down a tree. Father Sandoval gently eased the gate open and greeted the crowd enthusiastically.

Good morning, welcome my dear friends! Please come into my home -- your home, and make yourself mercifully comfortable! Bien Dia, Amigos!

With this the crowd stormed in, wet and quick, but orderly nonetheless. Two hundred and fifty parishioners all told is what the Father expected, and is what he got, he was sure. He stepped to the side on the edge of the walkway to let the mob of individuals and families proceed. Every few moments he held up his hand to wave and give shout of good morning, but got nothing in return. That was what was expected. After all, they didn't come here for friendship -- there was business to tend to, no matter if it were the business of faith.

The rain was still coming down by the bucketful, but he didn't mind it, as the rain was somehow soothing in its torment. As the crowd rushed by, he stood there proudly – admiring his work here in the city. Admittedly he would miss it very much. He recognized every single face that passed – he knew them even as they walked head down covered under hats and umbrellas. Each soul had their own story, their own need; and each of them had a common thread amongst others: Their prayers were answered at some point or another. That’s what kept them coming back. Each and every one of them took the walk through the courtyard at some point in time -- that was the requirement. Otherwise they would surely not be here today.

While the crowd was making swift progress through the gates and into the church, Father Sandoval noticed one body jutting stationary in the stream, like a stone in the river bed. The man stood there, staring in the Father’s direction, wearing no headgear nor donning an umbrella. The old man stood his ground though he was repeatedly battered and pushed by the mob trying to make their way in. The Father instantly knew exactly who it was.

A moment later, the man was face first on the ground. He had been pushed onto the concrete by the fierce procession behind him and now struggled to pick himself up from the wet concrete. The crowd continued to rush in over him -- stepping over as if he were a part of the landscape. No one tried to help, no one stopped to check if the man was hurt. The Father looked down on the man lying on the ground and shook his head in disgust. The rain poured over him while the grey skies darkened the scene even further.

He walked towards the man and reached his arm out to help, but the man sprung up quickly himself, leaning back into the crowd away from the Father. The man, Mr. Johnson, now stood there with his head down, appearing as a child in the principal’s office, his hands in his pockets, his legs melded together, avoiding all eye contact with the Priest. But as he saw Father Sandoval take another step towards him, he reached back to his hind pocket.

In an instant, like the very lighting above them, Father Sandoval grabbed the man's arm from the elbow as tightly as his old muscles would allow and whispered into Mr. Johnson’s ear, Hold that thought. he said. Then let him go. Mr. Johnson jumped back into the crowd as quick as a wink and made his way into the church.

That foolish old man, thought Father Sandoval. His lack of courage was evident when they first met a year ago and now it continued through today. But Father Sandoval was still intrigued by this challenge, by this game from Mr. Johnson. He knew this moment had to come at some point, but on this very day! That was even more delightful! That was one of the reasons he even had the inkling to let Mr. Johnson attend his mass after what happened the previous summer.

That’s precisely when Mr. Johnson had begun attending mass

It wasn't a good first meeting with the man and his wife – at least for them, but the Father remembered fondly.

The Johnsons were a very strong religious couple who were well liked with the neighbors. They held their heads up high, especially with the war raging on in Europe and Asia. The Johnson’s ultimate sacrifice – sending their son into the war – was always the first topic of conversation at every gathering. Whether it was an official event supporting the troop efforts at home, or a less formal event such as bumping into a neighbor at the local grocery store, her son’s status (and with it, her status) was the first and foremost topic of conversation. The Johnsons themselves made their weekly vigils at church very apparent and public, and for their efforts received heartfelt gratitude from fellow parents whose sons might have been too young or too old to go off into war.

At last contact, their son had written his parents from one of Navy ships heading for the islands of Japan. He had written proudly, anticipating that the battles would be fierce, and that it would be difficult to fight in enemy territory, but nonetheless he felt they would be victorious.

For Mrs. Johnson, the very thought of a new, non-Catholic church in her very neighborhood was itself blasphemy. The Johnsons had heard of this new church, but had not made the effort yet to come around and see it for themselves. Mrs. Johnson was very curious indeed, as many interesting rumors went around the wives clubs as quickly as the news of the war did. Many people spoke about it, but most spoke about it under their breath or in the secrecy of their home. Even within her close knit circle of friends, there was an overall reluctance to discuss any matter associated with the new church. And a growing consensus among them was that the new church was not of the Lord, but of something different…something black. This intrigued her even more.

She had not spoken directly with any actual parishioners of the new church, although she knew many. Once her acquaintances left their former spiritual residence, and her current one – Blessed Agnes Church, for the La Iglesa de el Milagro she refused to acknowledge them as friends.

But the rumors were there nonetheless, out in the open for all to heed and to believe. Most were circulations of information from second or third party sources, simple statements with no meat; none of the juicy details she desired. The most promising piece of information, to prove that the church was a fraud and run by a con man, was that the church held a special place in its heart – somewhere in the lower level. This place had magical powers she had heard, where wishes, or prayers were answered for those who sought them out.

Mrs. Johnson laughed at this and thought nothing more of it. How absurd, she had said. How dare those people take the name of the lord to such a blasphemous level, she had said. The stress of war had gotten the better of these cast aways – and they went scurrying like common rodents trying to find another hole in the wall for cover. They deserved to be cut off from her polite society.

But there were other things that concerned her as well – other more real threats to her social status. Being the upstanding citizen that she was, she was offended that the new church was a very private place, and that no new parishioners were allowed in – not even the Johnsons.

And that just would not do. Not in her neighborhood. The church was a place of God, not for some circus freak show. She decided to check it out for herself. So on one Sunday in the midst of August, Mrs. Johnson, along with her husband, found their way to the doorstep of their collective fates.

Prologue ii

On that day after breakfast, the Johnsons had decided to walk down Avers Avenue instead of their usual stroll down Lawndale street (three blocks out of the way) where their home was nestled. They would walk past that strange church after breakfast that morning – at least to get a glimpse of the place – see what all the fuss was about.

Once they arrived, the church itself seemed as normal as any other catholic church, except it was significantly smaller than the cathedrals that were popping up all over the city. The top of the front tower was barely above the three flats that saddled to the north of it. However, the thing that did stand out was the enormous black gate that surrounded the grounds in their entirety. It wasn’t something that screamed welcome as any place of worship should. Instead, the gate was seemingly made of a thousand black spears pointing skyward. Their points as sharp as anything an African tribesman would hold in his hand during the hunt. It was an army of guards standing at attention ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. But on this morning, the gates were open, welcoming the world, and the only guard on duty was none other than the priest himself.

Mr. Johnson made his way in through the front gates and Father Sandoval turned and welcomed him with a smile and a wave of his hand. Mrs. Johnson, meanwhile, was reluctant to pass the threshold. She stayed behind just beyond the gate opening with her heels straddling the parkway.

Good mornin' sir, how are you, said Mr. Johnson removing his brim from his head. Are… you the pastor of this here church? His voice stuttered a bit, though he felt confident inside.

Father Sandoval, noticing Mrs. Johnson's trepidation at entering the gate, smiled in her direction while he approached Mr. Johnson.

Hello friend, said the Father, placing his hand on Mr. Johnson's shoulder. Have you and your lovely wife come to join us this beautiful Sunday morning for prayers? We may have room for you today, you’ve come just at the right time! He motioned to Mrs. Johnson with another wave of his hand. Her face went cold, and he could see her color was instantly gone but she still managed a broken smile.

His timbre voice reached out to her like a lure in the river. She shuddered, but didn’t take the bait. She was half surprised by his accent, or lack thereof. She was expecting a blurb of broken English out of this middle aged Mexican man, but the deep voice and educated speech made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She took a step back -- almost tripping on the overgrown grass. Mr. Johnson was visibly uncomfortable with Father Sandoval's arm on him, but he didn't want to pull back away rudely, instead he remained cordial, with the jitters building in his gut like small eruptions.

This here church, I hadn't seen none like it before. Mr. Johnson managed to muster. What type is it? Don't see no cross, no crucifix up top.

Father Sandoval glanced at the pointed top of the front tower as if he just heard some news he hadn’t heard before. A crucifix, you say? he replied. Is a sigil all that would bring you to my church? I'm sure you and your wife are devoted worshippers, and I'm sure you are well versed in scripture. Is an idol really what guides your heart and your soul? He paused and gave Mr. Johnson a grave look, peering deep past the curtain of his eyes.

Mr. Johnson pulled away abruptly from the Father, suddenly finding himself very uncomfortable. Why no, no that's not it he demanded, that's not it at all. We Catholics don't revere the cross, we just use it as a symbol of our faith… of our faith in the one true God, Jesus Christ.

With this, Mr. Johnson had retrieved his composure and felt confident again, he glanced at his wife and she nodded rapidly in approval.

Mr. Johnson continued. What I mean to say is, is the church Catholic? As you are probably aware, most of us here are Christians. Why, there's no Jews or any other sects on this side of town for some miles from here. And don't tell me you're one of those Jehovah's seers, or witnesses, or whate'er. 'Cause we don't want that here in our part of the woods either. He glanced back at his wife, and she gave him a little smile as if to say you give it to him, honey.

With this, Mrs. Johnson had taken a few steps forward on the sidewalk on the strength of her husband, but not quite at the front gate yet. She stood there in her finest dress and pinned hat, clutching her purse close to her body with both hands folded over it.

My my my, Mr...Mr. Urr.. I'm sorry I did not have the honor of your name sir, said the priest.

The name's Johnson, Gus Johnson. My wife's name is Dorothy. He glanced at his wife, and he saw that the look on her face had deteriorated, as if her husband had just given up the key to her soul with the submission of her given name.

Ah yes, Mr. Johnson continued the father. I know how you feel. We all know in these trying times, when our sons are dying overseas, that we can take notice that any new folks we see around our homes may be, uh, what do you call them... snake oil salesman. We are very cautious of who we let into our homes and into our hearts. Our lives are under attack, our way of life has been postponed, and may not resume as it once had been. I understand that very well, Mr. Johnson. To see a newcomer who looks different, as I must to you. You see, I am from Mexico, I've come a long way-- and I can assure you that this church follows the teachings of the Bible. I can assure you that the lord we pray to is the same one you do.

At this, Father Sandoval gave a wry smile, but no smile was returned. Mrs. Johnson had finally mustered the courage and had slithered across the threshold of the gate to stand beside her husband. She clutched at his arm and spewed forth from a strong voice.

Father, if that is what indeed you are, my husband and I already have our little church. We attend the church of Blessed Agnes on 26th and Lawndale. Now that she spoke, Father Sandoval knew who was in charge in this marriage.

If you are a proper priest, she said, then you should know Father Howell who has been our pastor for the last thirty years. We have no intention of leaving our church, and we are deeply disturbed that you promote your church from the sidewalk, like a carnival barker! Mrs. Johnson glared at Father Sandoval. Her breathing was harsh, and she had become red faced.

She continued, I don't know where you came from, but in these parts, we don't need a foreigner coming into our neighborhood. A few have gotten through and are living among us, but we're working on that. I don't know how you escaped our attention before, and I wish I had come here months ago, but I can tell you that you need to leave our people alone. You need to go back to where you came from and take your church with you! I will make sure your freak show here... lord, the things I hear about this place...is closed down for good! Heathen!

She tried to pull her husband towards the gate satisfied she had said what needed to be said, but Mr. Johnson was so surprised by her outburst that he couldn't move fast enough and she was anchored where she stood. Father Sandoval reached out and grabbed Mrs. Johnson by the elbow before she got too far. At first it was only a gentle squeeze, bit then it turned into a vice. She twitched her unbelieving eyes and froze where she stood.

Father Sandoval, still smiling and very amused at this woman’s tenacity, leaned in close to her face. Mrs. Johnson, he said, and as he opened his mouth, she could see his teeth were meticulously clean and white and his beard and goatee were trimmed to the finest precision. She could also see his skin was young and without blemish, no wrinkles wore on his face, not even the first inkling of hollows of where they would normally form around the mouth and the eyes. But by all accounts he at first seemed to be in his fifties – maybe even sixties. This was striking enough to Mrs. Johnson, but the thing that struck her most was the breath that came from this man.

It was a repulsive odor of earthy soil, and the smells of a thousand rotting corpses. From this odor, a vision came to her as clear as a picture on a postcard: Piles upon piles of bodies, simmering in the hot sun; naked, dirty, and covered with blood. Unknowable entrails peaking from beneath the skin of the myriad corpses. Bodies rotting and emitting unthinkable smells; the carnage that would only be found in the fields of battle across the ocean. Mrs. Johnson shuttered to her core.

Mrs. Johnson, the Father said. Your son, Jeremy, he is an officer stationed in Japan, is he not?"

Her eyes widened and her strength drained. She felt her body shrivel up inside, and she ceased her effort to pull away. Her eyes glassy, but too proud to tear up, she whispered, how do you kn...kn...know? How would you know about that, you don't even know us?

It is a very dangerous situation, this war, don't you think? He said. "Your son is probably in the thick of battle right this minute. You know how those Japs are, they kill themselves for their Emperor. Did you ever know anyone who would be willing to die, to literally blow themselves up for their country? These Japs are very different than your Americans, as it is a very different thing to be drafted and forced into battle as your son was, or at least as he thinks he was. The Japanese soldiers are not merely fighting for a flag flying back thousands of miles across the ocean, no Mrs. Johnson. They are not merely fighting so that their mother, who is home thousands of miles away, can proclaim that she is a proud card carrying member of a son-in-the-war. No, no. The Japs aren't fighting for that, Mrs. Johnson, they are fighting for their very land, and their very God, the Emperor."

He paused for a second for her to sulk in her dismay. It is very difficult to defeat these types of forces, Mrs. Johnson. It is very likely your son will not make it out off the Island of Iwo Jima, where he is at this very moment. Isn’t he? Sitting in a deep dirt trench with his eyes closed and knees held closely to his chest, praying to his God. His fellow soldiers straddled over the mounds of dirt, with bullet holes in their helmets, and rifles in their hands. Waiting to take the life of one of these Jap soldiers, or waiting to take a bullet for their country. The sound is awful for a young man, the ringing in young Jeremy's ears from the countless explosions all around him, he hears his fellow soldiers falling and crying out in the uttmost pain... falling and dying, while he himself is frozen in his little world. He may as well be sucking his thumb.

Now the Johnsons were both frozen. Tears were running down Mrs. Johnson's face – no amount of pride could hold them back now. She stood confused -- though she wasn't staring at Father Sandoval, but staring past him. She was limp in his clutch. Father Sandoval continued.

"Young Jeremy sits there, reciting aloud this prayer that you gave him, because instead of sitting at home caressing the young soft skin of Donna Clemson, you sent him off to fight. Yes, you could have kept him home Mrs. Johnson, you knew quite well he would not be allowed to serve on the account of his mental shortcomings, but instead you wanted to be the proud mother of a fine soldier, just like the other ladies from the bridge club. He didn't want to go, he begged you not to send him off, but you were determined, and you got it done. And instead of being home at your side, he sits in this dirt, waiting for the inevitable, Mrs. Johnson. Jeremy recites your prayer over and over:

God almighty, may not the evil that dwells beside me, consume me, nor divide me, for I will come to you lord, when you choose to take me, but let it not be by the hands of my enemies, for they are evil and I am your servant.

Father Sandoval remained quiet, but loosened his grip on her elbow. He saw the tears, he saw the pain in her face. People create their paths in this world, and ultimately are not strong enough to face the final destination they've paved. The eerily quiet morning was suddenly broken by loud sobs. Mrs. Johnson was bawling loudly. Finally she let out a cry and whimpered:

Who are you? Who are you, you monster? How do you know about my son? How do you know me? You are no man of the cloth, you're a monster! You'll not decide if my Jeremy lives or dies, you will not! You will not!" Mrs. Johnson reached out for Father Sandoval, she grabbed a piece of his black suit Jacket, but quickly let go. She had no idea what she would do if she would have held on. Mr. Johnson was quick to hold his wife back, though he was in a semi trance himself. He would later describe this event as a bad dream, that it never really happened -- to everyone except himself.

Father Sandoval, rubbed his hand over the spot where she had tugged his jacket, examining for any tears or imperfections, and he glanced at his watch. Now, now Mrs. Johnson, I have no idea why you are saying these things. I only wish to be left alone in my own abode. I am not bothering anyone, but rather, I am the provider of faith and comfort to those who cannot, or will not gain it from the common teachings and blessings of their current faith, including your Blessed Agnes. Now is that a bad thing, Mrs. Johnson? To provide comfort to those who need it?"

He smiled at her, a deep delightful smile that showed his true feelings at the moment. See, you are someone who definitely requires some comforting now, Mrs. Johnson. Will your Father Howell provide it? Or will he provide it when your son comes home to you in a casket as you stand beside him in a black veil? Again, I implore you that I only wish to be left alone as I have been for these few years I have been here.

Her tears flared up again, and she was unable to speak. Mr. Johnson finally uttered: We don't want any problems, we didn't mean anything we said. We are good people, we believe in our dear lord. The words came out in a whisper all the while his head hung low. He guided his grieving wife towards the exit gate. We are good people and not looking for trouble or to cause any for anybody else. We'll be on our way now and I, and I bid you, God bless you...

Mr. Johnson grabbed his wife with both hands and escorted her to the front gate. Father Sandoval could still here her sobbing and sniffling as she walked away.

Mrs. Johnson, one more thing. The Father shouted behind them, but they didn't stop or turn to look at him. You are still welcome to attend my church any time. My main purpose is to provide comfort, and... and, yes...comfort. I wouldn't worry about your boy, Jeremy. I think he takes after you -- tough and purposeful. I'm sure you'll be seeing him again soon

With that, the Johnsons quickly disappeared across the street.

She did see her son soon after that, as she had a fatal heart attack that night and it was the last image she ever conjured in the living world.

And at the very moment she had gripped Father Sandoval’s suit jacket, her son Jeremy was shot in the head in the very bunker he had described.

A few weeks after that day, Father Sandoval was surprised to see Mr. Johnson approach him outside the locked gate. Mr. Johnson broke down in tears as he explained what had happened to his wife and son. He fell to his knees and asked for mercy. Father Sandoval picked him up off of the ground, and led him into the church. Since then he had attended each and every Sunday.

Prologue iii

At last, the final few folks came in through the gates. Father Sandoval was glad, his legs were about to give out and he couldn't let anyone see the crippled old man he was becoming. No he mustn't let them see this dilapidation of their revered Father. As he swung the two iron gates to a close, something caught the corner of his eye inside the grounds. These fools know that the grounds were off limits! Who had the nerve to disobey the rules? He quickly latched the gate, and moved with the speed of a young sprite.

The church lot consisted of two oversized spaces: The south side held a well-manicured lawn and garden. It stretched from the front sidewalk to the alleyway. Large oak trees stood tall in front and back, while little walkways of individual stone pathways crisscrossed in a maze. The building itself stood on the north half of the lot, but did not butt against the property line. Instead a ten foot patch full of trees, shrubs, and bushes grew wildly there – it was the one area on the property that didn’t win its owner’s attention. This area was bordered on the north side by the black iron gate that encircled the entirety of the lot. Father Sandoval made his way to this area and peered back through the path -- the growth was so thick he could see only the first ten feet of overlapping greenery. His keen senses felt something was there, the fear in the air was as