Father Josephus (short story)

    “God bless you my dear friend. I will miss you tremendously but will see you soon again. Even I don't live in eternity!”

   Father Josephus kissed the forehead of his life long companion Father Lubertus before the undertaker closed the lid of the coffin.

    How long did they stay here together in the Monastery? Brethren for much longer than he remembered; and he made the sign of the cross.

With his hands folded in front of his chest, his thin lips murmured a prayer, then he took his walking stick and followed the coffin. The porters walked very slowly which wasn't an easy task; the diseased was until his death, a very big and heavy man. But Father Josephus who was very old, refused with great certainty the wheel chair some caring soul brought him and they did not want him to lose his balance.

    They crossed the large and impressive chapel where a few ladies from the village sang Latin prayers. Their voices faded on their way to the high vaults where the angels folded their wings round the sound to carry it to Heaven.

The beautifully decorated brass chandeliers that glowed like pure gold and once carried large candles, moved softly when the procession walked by, as if they paid their respect to Father Lubertus and in a promise to look after Father Josephus as long as needed.

   The very few people in the procession pretended not to see the tears that softly ran down the old Brother's cheeks following the many fine lines in his face until they dripped on his habit which turned over the years from bright white to a soft equal grey. The large cross and the rosary at his belt moved with each irregular step. A lady from the village wanted to support Father Josephus and took his trembling hand but he waved her away; this was his very last walk with his friend and he wanted to do it all on his own. The day that he was going to need help, was rapidly approaching, he knew that very well. But now he walked.

   The service at the grave was very simple. After a long life dedicated to the Catholic church with all it's rituals, prayers and hymns, the incense and candles, both Brethren - the only two left in the Monastery that once was home to 200 of their colleagues - decided long ago that if one of them was going to stay behind the service for the other had to be minimalistic.

    The tears of Father Josephus were not minimalistic and he did not care. Everybody was allowed to see his sadness about the loss of his friend. He knew that his age also allowed him to cry, elderly people were more emotional than younger ones. Never could he explain nor wanted he to, the pain in his heart.

   He raised his hand with the blue vanes which shone through the almost translucent skin with the brown liver spots, to sign the porters it was time to lower the coffin to lay Father Lubertus in his final resting place amongst all those Brethren that went before him.

    He tried to raise his voice when he thanked every one for being here and if they did not mind to leave him alone. And yes he would be careful on his way back to the chapel.

The people left one by one, taking their human sounds like coughing, voices and footsteps with them until there was total silence in the graveyard. Even the birds did not sing. Bees and butterflies sat on stones and flowers without moving.

    Father Josephus put his stick against a gravestone behind him before he held the stone next to the grave of his friend with both hands. Then he kneeled, ignoring the pain in his joints and not knowing if he was able to rise again without help. But he needed to do this, he needed to sit next to the open grave in the soft fresh earth that was dug and that now besmirched his habit. But in his grief he did not notice it.

   Very slowly he lifted his hands from the gravestone and folded them in his lap. His restless fingers looked for the rosary, a custom he wasn't aware off, and touched each bead one by one. His lips moved but not in a prayer; all prayers were said over and over again. Prayers from a book, prayers that were the same for all Brethren; no personal words to God and today was not the right day.

    Today, Father Lubertus thought, was the day to look back on a long, very long life with the man he loved and who was more than a brother to him.

Was it a forbidden love? He thought so but could not remember it well. It was as with a long marriage: passion became friendship but in a very special way. You knew each others customs, you knew you could rely on your partner. You knew his words before he spoke them and recognized every emotion. Every step and every move became yours. You breathed the same air and the beat of two hearts was one. If that was forbidden love then the answer was yes.

   A love never to be spoken out loud let alone practised. Both men could say in all honesty that they never sinned against the will of the Catholic church.

But was this also the will of God? He discussed this with Father Lubertus who was like himself, brought up in a Catholic family which offered at least one son or daughter to the Monasteries, something that was never questioned. Not by the parents, nor the children, nor the Prior or Prioress. The children seldom arrived without a lot of money donated by their rich parents. Father Lubertus and Father Josephus were no exception.

   When they were in their twenties with the feelings of healthy young men, they asked each other for the very fist time if celibacy was indeed the will of God instead of the church. The discussions went on for years but became less important with ageing. These were the times you did not leave the Monastery to go back to the world outside; leaving was a disgrace for church ánd family.

    But when the years went by and brethren died and no new young men joined the order, it was if their earlier doubts were confirmed. The world changed, they even heard of Catholic priests being married and how furious the Pope was about this sin. Still, it was too late. Too late to leave the Monastery, too late to speak out loud their love for each other and too late to return home because there was no home any more. Both were extremely old, almost a century!

With all their best will and energy they lived the lives they always lived in an empty cold and deserted building where even their footsteps were not heard any more.

   

  

Photo: @abandonment_issuez (Instagram)

Father Josephus still sat near the grave when the gravedigger arrived.

The hands still folded but the fingers did not touch the beads any more. The translucent skin was white and the blue vanes frozen in a black colour.

The tears of the days before dried and the soft ground from the grave was turned into sand that blew in the wind with the same pace of the grey old habit......

   The wind and rain are also in control of the Monastery which grandeur is fading like the voices that once sang their religious songs and that stopped when the angels folded their wings round the soul of Father Josephus.

Word of thanks: the photo of @abandonment_issuez (Istagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Ricky!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @abandonment_issuez and his YouTube Account

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen