The Divine Adventures of Simon Templegate

Chapter One

 

  1.  The Last Ordinary Day

          “I must be out of my mind,” Father Simon Templegate muttered as saw dust sifted down upon his bald head.  He was about to finish sanding the high wooden archway in the piano room, when the phone rang in the study across the hall. Tripping over a variety of tools and setting down his hammer, he maneuvered his way under a ladder.  Just as he reached for the phone, it stopped ringing and his answering machine came on.  “Simonnnnn,” his neighbor and housekeeper Polly chided, “if you don’t stop all that racket and take time to eat, your blood sugar will drop again---and you know what that means…” 

            Polly was eighty-two years young and old enough to be Simon’s mother, a role she’d designated for herself four years ago, when Simon moved into the rattletrap mansion across the dirt road with the hair-brained idea that he was going to turn it into a retreat house.  He’d been renovating the darn thing ever since, and she had to admit, he was doing a good job. The place now gleamed with polished banisters, maroon and amber stained-glass windows and what Simon referred to as an ambient heavenly glimmer. 

            The Heavenly Glimmer was actually the title of his weekly column that he wrote for the diocese newspaper.  He had a wide following because of his trademark humor and the fact that he wrote honestly about doubt as much as he did faith. In fact, Doubting Thomas was his beloved patron saint, whom he often had one-sided conversations with. “Now Tom,” he’d say, raising his eyes skyward as he paced amiably with his hands folded behind his back, “let me run this by you…” and he’d be off and running with whatever was bothering him at the time.

            Right now, however, it was his rumbling stomach that he was listening to.  He’d worked right through lunch and after hearing Polly’s insistent message, realized that he was starving. Limping down the corridor leaving saw dust footprints in his wake, he ambled into the large, sunny kitchen.  There, he opened the refrigerator and took out a stick of sausage, carton of chocolate milk and jar of dill pickles.  Perching on a worn stool at the butcher block center island, he sliced a chunk of bread off the loaf Polly had brought over the day before and made a hefty sandwich. Appreciatively murmuring a prayer of thanks, he dropped a tidbit on the floor as the retreat house mascot, Marmalade, a fifteen pound, orange tiger cat came waddling over, looking for a handout.  “Old Buddy,” Simon observed companionably, “if we get any fatter, we’ll have to both go on a diet…”

            Suddenly, there was a crash coming from the library on the second floor and the thud of something heavy falling.  Startled, Simon jumped and the hair raised on Marmalade’s back.  “What in the world…” Simon whispered, as he and the cat took to the stairs.  When they peered through the arched door, they could see that a large book had fallen off a shelf and lay open on the floor. 

            “Now, how’d that happen?”  Simon asked quizzically as he crossed the mahogany floor and bent to pick up the dusty book. It was the old generational bible that had been in his family for over a hundred years.  Peering over the top of his smeary glasses, he read the faded passage from Deuteronomy 10:19, where some long-distant relative had underlined, “You shall also love the stranger…” 

            Carefully putting the book back on the shelf, wedged between a volume by Thomas Merton and The Complete Guide to Organic Gardening, Simon wiggled his eyebrows at Marmalade who was watching with interest.  Considering himself a practical mystic who believed in signs, he plucked a pencil stub from behind his ear, shuffled over to the desk with it and grabbing a note pad, began making a list of needed grocery supplies.  “Looks like we may be getting company,” he murmured with anticipation.        

                

 2.  The Summons

          Simon couldn’t sleep and had been thrashing and turning all night. He could not shake the disconcerting feeling that something was about to happen that would change his life.  Rising on an elbow, he squinted near-sightedly at the luminous green dial on his alarm clock.  3:15 a.m.  Putting the pillow over his head, he groaned, “Darn insomnia,” thinking of all he had to do the next day and wishing he could turn off his over-active brain. “May as well give up the ghost,” he finally decided and throwing back the quilt on his cot in his small room just off the kitchen, decided a snack was needed. “Brownies will put you to sleep,” he chuckled, feeling only a twinge of guilt as he re-buttoned the undone button that spanned the ample, stretched-out waistband of his flannel pajamas.

            Switching on the red, plastic radio in the kitchen, he listened to the weather report, predicting further chilly temperatures and heavy rain with high winds.  It was gusting already and as was often the case, the old phone lines were down. Not much good for traveling, he thought frowning, wondering who his mysterious guest was going to be and worrying that the mud in the driveway could prove to be a problem.  The 1950’s Doo Wop tune, The Duke of Earl came on, and Simon sang absently along in perfect harmony, making up his own words to accompany it such as The Prince of Peace, The King of Kings and The Queen of Hearts.  Pleased with his innovative renditions, Simon was about to reach for another brownie when there was a sharp rap on the window glass above the sink. 

            “Good God!” Simon exclaimed, hand flying to his chest.  Rushing over to the window, he leaned forward, gazing down onto the sidewalk below which was dimly illuminated by an outdoor sconce that kept vigil all night.  There, he could see the shadowy figure of a person in a billowing rain cape, who, taking an umbrella, rapped determinedly again at the window.  “I know you’re in there,” a voice called, “please let me in! I have a message for you!”

            Aghast, Simon hurried to the kitchen side door and called, “Over here!”  The wind whipped the screen door back against the wall, slamming it with a resounding bang.  The stranger grabbed it and with a quick step, dashed into the warm kitchen, latching the door behind as silence fell like a slip of paper drifting off a table.  Staring wide eyed, Simon faltered with a tear of joy in his eye, “You’ve been sent by them, here?” 

            “There was no other way,” the stranger replied politely, throwing back his dripping hood and revealing his face.  

            

 3.  Tying Up Loose Ends

            The next morning, Simon overslept, which he rarely, if ever did.  The smell of  frying turkey bacon and eggs, which the health-conscious Polly only allowed as a treat on Saturday’s wafted in from the kitchen as he groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes.  Polly knocked lightly on his door. “You’re a fine one, sleeping half the day away while flood waters are threatening to float this old ship out of here!” 

            Simon roused himself, mentally brushing the nightmares that had plagued him out of mind.  “Thank you, Polly, for making breakfast---I’ll be out in a minute.”

            “Well, I’m off.  There’s a stack of bills on the table for you from the post man.  Take your vitamins and check your blood pressure…” 

            “OK,“ Simon said. He was about to explain that he would be leaving but was cut short in mid sentence by the sound of the door slamming as she hurried off to attend her Yoga for Seniors class.   Quickly pulling on an old sweatshirt that had Holy Redeemer Youth Car Wash printed across the chest and a pair of golf pants with paint stains, he slid his feet into new athletic shoes with Velcro closures and hurried into the kitchen.  Eating his breakfast Polly had made standing at the counter, he spent the next several hours using his cell phone returning business calls, counseling several people from his old parish and explaining to his editor and good friend, Sebastian, that he was sending over a batch of columns since he would be unavailable for an undetermined amount of time---and no, he couldn’t specify more information than that---sorry.

            Marmalade rubbed against his pant leg, and with bright eyes, Simon said incredulously, “Nearly sixty years old and in for an adventure of a lifetime…”  He left the sentence hanging as, ever-practical, he wondered, “Now where did I store my suitcase?”

4.  Loss of Innocence Flashback

            When Simon was ten years old, he had had an awakening following his Grandfather’s funeral:

              It was a summer day, the sky filled with white clouds as the sun drenched the scraggly knee-high corn with golden warmth on the farm where he lived with his parents and older sister, Ruth, named after the biblical heroine.  Swinging listlessly in the old tire swing slung from the stunted oak tree, Simon, still in his now-rumpled church clothes, had escaped from the house where casseroles and relatives filled every available space.  “At least he didn’t suffer,” people said, referring to his grandfather’s sudden heart attack, and “he was old and ready.”  Ready?  What the heck did that mean, Simon wondered. 

            Suddenly he recalled a conversation with his grandfather just the week before when they were tidying the shed.  “Squeeze the juice out of every good thing,” his grandpa had said as he dug out a handful of jelly beans from his overall pocket and popped one in his mouth and handed a bunch to his grandson. Simon had grinned, as leaning on the grease-encrusted tool bench side by side, the boy and old man had gazed appreciatively out across the plains through the double-wide, open doors.   

            But now, his grandfather, whom Simon was named after, was gone.  The loss felt so shocking, final, miserable and personal.   Sure, Simon had known many losses in his young life---the loss of his dog who ran away, his favorite baseball glove that got stolen at Catholic school, even the temporary loss of being able to use his arm when he broke it falling out of the hay mow--but in eight weeks, it was healed and back to normal.  “Good as new, except for a bump on the bone,” his Grandfather had said with a wink of satisfaction.  

            Angry tears coursed down Simon’s cheeks as he resisted death and all it stood for. After all, his eleven year old, only brother had been killed the day he was born in l947 and he never even got to meet him.  How unfair was that?  And now his grandfather---who next?  Confused and stricken, he repeated aloud over and over, “…gone for good,” as he dug the toes of his penny loafers into the soft dust in a circular pattern under the swing.

            Simon always looked back on this memory as The Rude Awakening, the one in which the innocence of life was lost to him.  The day pure, blind, trusting faith died, tumbling into the grave with his grandfather, whose tomb stone with a corn field etched on it read Man of Faith.  Well, Simon’s eyes were opened now and he no longer thought as a child.

5.  Packing the Love

 

            Simon shook himself out of his reverie, thinking, “Wow, where did that come from?”  He had no use for traveling back in time to memories of the past right now, he needed to pack because he was leaving that afternoon for Parts Unknown.  He loved the sound of that, as he had never gotten to travel very much and always wanted to. Lugging his large, dusty suitcase out from under his cot, he threw in underwear, socks, a flash light, comfortable clothes, as well as his black slacks, black shirt and white Roman Catholic clerical collar.  Tools of the trade and all that.  Before his sister, Ruth had died last year from cancer, she had given him a lapel pin of two peas in a pod, which he lovingly packed in memory of her, along with his equally beloved silver cross which was given to him when he became a priest well over three and a half decades ago.  Most possessions did not mean a lot to him and he had always traveled light, materially speaking.  Today was no different as he shut his practically unused suitcase with a resounding click of the snaps, musing that closing the suitcase was also an inviting symbol of closure, making peace with the past and living in the present.  From the closet, he dug out Marmalade’s plastic cat carrier, who purred loudly as Simon declared, “A travelin’ cat and a travelin’ man…on a mission.” 

            The stranger who had arrived last night had only stayed a few minutes.  He had other invitations to extend and a schedule to keep to.  Simon hated to see him go, but he understood the call of ministry and the importance of commissions.  Now, here he was, suddenly finding himself invited to a gathering of elders and wise ones.  He had never felt more needed, wanted and able to contribute something important.  The unusual dreams had begun several months before and while he was still only beginning to understand them, he knew they were preparing him for a summons.  Ironically, the words of relatives who had said of his grandfather’s death, “he was old, he was ready” came back to Simon.  Old, ready and man of faith---somehow he sensed it was all coming together, adding, “Except I’m not that old.”  

             The stranger would not or could not answer any questions.  “Where am I to go?” Simon asked.  “Who will I meet?  Who else is going?  Why are we gathering?”   

            “Wait and see,” the stranger said diplomatically.  “You’ll find out all in good time.  A bus will pick you up at 4:00 in the afternoon.” 

            Respectfully, Simon had promised simply and openly, “I’ll help in any way I can.” 

6.  Navigating Mud

            Thunder rumbled and a streak of lightening flashed across the sky like illuminated, horizontal tree roots.  Looking worriedly out the floor-to-ceiling, lead-paned window by the massive front door, Simon held the worn, velvet drapery back with one hand and drew out his pocket watch with the other.  4.30 a.m. His ride was a half hour late.  It was raining cats and dogs and the dirt drive way had become a river of mud.

            His stomach in knots, Simon stepped back from the window lamenting “This will never do…this will never do” as he took out an antacid tablet from his shirt pocket.  He eyed his suitcase, galoshes and a dozing Marmalade in his cat carrier settled by the door. With growing conviction, Simon knew what he had to do. 

            Tugging on the rubber overshoes and tightly securing the hood on his rain coat, he grasped the handle of his suitcase in one hand and the cat taxi in the other; taking a deep breath, out he went.  As he clamored down the steep stone steps and reached the bottom, he turned and looked back at his beloved retreat house.  “I’ll be back,” he vowed, “this is just the beginning.”  A sudden play of light caused him to think he saw a young boy’s face at the attic window, but when he blinked, it was gone.

            The sucking mud oozed up to nearly the tops of his rubber over shoes and each step was laborious, like wading through wet cement.  Cold sweat mixed with rain dripped off Simon’s nose while Marmalade growled disapprovingly.  Simon had a half mile to cover before he reached the main, tarred road, where he hoped his ride would be waiting---and hopefully, not stuck in the mud.  “Just don’t leave me behind,” Simon prayed, “hold on and wait for me…”

            Tall evergreen trees lined both sides of his long, winding driveway making an eerie swooshing sound in the wind-driven rain now turning to sleet.  Simon’s face stung from the onslaught as with head down, he determinedly trudged forward. There was the sound of a tree branch breaking as abruptly, a giant owl winged silently across his path, so close he could see its talons.  A speckled white and brown feather whirled down into the mud, and awkwardly thrusting his unwieldy suitcase under his arm, Simon picked it up and thrust it into his deep pocket.

            By now, his heart was pounding and he ominously began to have that sickening feeling that he may have made a huge mistake in venturing out.  His muscles ached and his breath was coming in gasps.  He knew if Polly got wind of what he’d done, she would be hard pressed to forgive him if he had a heart attack.  Praying for strength and trying to ignore the chiding inner voice that kept chanting the words ‘you‘re a fool,’ he figured he could make it around the bend---which would bring him to his destination at the end of the road.  But what if there was no ride waiting?  The appalling thought overwhelmed him.

            It was hard to see in the down pour and he was seen before he saw.  Suddenly there was a friendly beeping sound of a horn and Simon nearly fell to his knees in gratitude.  “They’re here,” he cheered, “they waited for me!” 

            Sure enough, in the distance he could see a small, hot pink bus parked at the edge of the highway.  With adrenalin surging, Simon galloped clumsily through the mud the rest of the way, while the dignified Marmalade literally yowled as he was bumped along in his carrier.

            The driver, wearing a service station coverall with a wrench emblem on the pocket was waiting for Simon and reached helpfully for his suitcase, patting him heartily on the back.  “Some weather we’re having, huh?”  Introducing himself as Nicholas, he explained that they tried traversing the muddy lane, but soon saw that it was impossible. “We were lucky that we were able to back out---just in the nick of time, too,” the genial man continued apologetically, taking note of Simon’s mud-splattered state of near-exhaustion.  “Well, not to worry, you’re here now, safe and sound.  Welcome aboard!”

             And with that, Simon was on his way as he mentally catalogued the driver’s comments for a future column entitled:  Backing Out Before It’s too late:  Wisdom Before Folly. 

7.  Strangers and Soul Mates

 

            It was warm in the bus, a welcome haven from the storm that was finally beginning to abate.  Suddenly feeling a bit shy, Simon grinned as the three people aboard pressed forward to greet him, all talking at once.  “Are---are--- you OK?”  a twenty-something young man with a mop of red hair stuttered in concern.  An amicable woman with short, bristly, steel-gray hair ordered in a no-nonsense manner, “Give him a little breathing room, Patrick.” Anton, the attractive, stooped, older gentleman with kind eyes sneezed as he said matter of factly, “I’m allergic to cats.  Don‘t especially like em’ much, either.”  

            Simon shook hands all around as Nicholas called pleasantly, “Buckle up and settle in folks, we’re in for about a six hour drive ahead of us.”

            Simon turned around in his seat and quizzically raised an eyebrow as Jean, the woman answered his unspoken question. “Lake Eternity. That’s where I’m told we’re gathering.”

            Simon knew of it, of course, although he had never been there.  Few had because it was on private property and so densely wooded, the lake could only be seen from the air. Rumors abounded about the place and Simon recalled the tales he’d heard about it as a child, such as, “people who go in never come back.” A bit nervously, he thought to himself, “What rubbish.  Pure conjecture.” 

            Late day began shifting to twilight as the bus motored comfortably along. The past few hours had been intriguing, chatting with his three companions and getting to know them.  Already, Simon felt at ease with them and they with him.  After all, they knew each had been summoned and they all wanted to be present.  They talked openly about their faith and the secret society they belonged to, which was the bond that drew them together---and the reason why they were making this trip.  

            After stopping at a gas station to fuel up, have a bowl of vegetable beef soup at the truck stop café and walk Marmalade, the four exhausted travelers retired into their own private thoughts with pillows and warm blankets. Lulled by the swish of tires on the wet high way, they slept.  As Simon was drifting off saying his evening office prayers, the same compelling dream he’d been having for months drew him deeply into restful slumber.

8.  The Voice of Dreams

            The dream always began with a swirl of colors---blue, green, turquoise and aqua in every shade imaginable, flowing and fading like the ebb of a tide.  Receding and advancing in waves, it seemed as if he were contained within an infinite, immense presence.  The dream had a primordial quality about it that evoked a knowing---no, a recognition---of the eternal. 

            In the beginning, the dreams were just impressions that left Simon with a marvelous sense of oneness with God when he awoke---of having been enveloped in cool, blue/green currents reminiscent of a great, infinite ocean.  In his journal Simon tried to describe it, but found he could not.  However, the dreams had recently become more frequent and there was a voice that spoke to him sometimes in the dream. The colors grew richer and jewel like; subtle sounds and scents began to emerge as well.

            He recalled white sparkling sands, undulating aquatic grasses, schools of fish in every size and hue.  There was also the sound of waves breaking upon rock, the rhythmic crash of surf rolling back into itself. 

            Upon occasion when he awoke, momentary tears would come to Simon’s eyes as he thought of the pain he had known in life, his sorrow much like the wave’s harsh crash upon the shore of memory. Even so, in the dream, Simon always felt amazingly alive and immersed in a sense of well-being that transcended emotion.

            Now, as the bus sped through the night, an ominous shadow passed through Simon’s dream world.  Wincing in his sleep, he began to mumble as the familiar voice from the dreams spoke to him.  Suddenly, from the seat behind him, Jean was shaking him awake. 

            “Simon…Simon!  What is it?  Wake up!”

            Alarmed and groggy, his mouth dry, Simon sat up.  “Wha---what was I saying?” he asked, peering into her unreadable face.

            “No.” She informed him.  “You kept saying no, over and over.”

\

9. The Messages Begin

 

          Polly was busy in Simon’s kitchen cleaning up and doing the dishes left over from the bacon and eggs.  Suddenly, she felt an ominous chill and making the sign of the cross, sensed a foreboding warning as if someone were trespassing over her grave.  “What a stupid cliché,” she contended aloud, as wiping soapy hands on her apron, she reread the letter Simon had left taped to the refrigerator.  Written in his usual neat script that leaned to the left, he wrote:

Dear Polly,

As I mentioned to you a while ago, I have been expecting a summons. 

Last night word came and I needed to leave before I had a chance to inform you.  The phone lines are down from the storm---as you know--- and since you don’t have a cell phone, I am writing as usual rather than calling.

Could you please contact the plumber and ask him to check the sump pump in the basement this week?  Thanks, I really appreciate that, his number is on my desk.

Naturally, I took Marmalade with me, we’ll see you when we return--whenever that might be, I don’t know. 

This could be an extended trip, so don’t worry. God willing, we’ll be back when the time is right.

Thanks for keeping an eye on the place, if anything unforeseen comes up that needs fixing, let Jake at the hardware store know, he’ll see to it.

As always,

Already missing your doughnuts, cake and cookies,

Simon

PS. When are you going to get that cell phone?

PS. Watch out for falling bibles with underlined messages!

            Polly stood with her hands on her hip, laughing at his reference to their ongoing friendly feud about her getting a cell phone.  “Too old and not interested in being at any one’s beck and call,” she always stated blandly.  As was their way, Simon had left notes before when he had to attend diocesan meetings or conferences that took him away for a week or so.  She was used to being in charge in his absence as his housekeeper---but something did not feel quite right. Knitting her brows together, she glanced through the kitchen into the entry hall.  “At least he took his galoshes,” she noted as she got out the broom and dust pan from the pantry.

            A small, birdlike, capable woman, there was very little Polly missed.  Dressed in elastic waist polyester jeans and a yellow polo shirt, she often reminded Simon of a cruise ship activity director.  As she industriously swept the black and white tile floor, she became aware of a fragrance that seemed to be drifting in and about the room.  The scent drew her and she followed it down the hall way into the small chapel.

             There, much to her astonishment, the altar was covered in wild violets.

10.  In the Blink of An Eye

          Suddenly, a small, runaway pony appeared out of nowhere, rearing in the middle of the highway, its luminous eyes caught in the glaring headlights.  Nicholas slammed on the brakes and the bus careened into the guard rail with a sickening crunch.  Wearing seat belts, the passengers were thrown forward and jerked back into their seats with a teeth-jarring jolt. Marmalade’s carrier was strapped down and he let out a startled meow. 

            It happened so fast, everyone was momentarily speechless with shock. White-faced, Nicholas stood up, silhouetted in front of the cracked windshield with his green seed corn cap askew.  “Everyone OK?” he asked urgently.

            “No bones broken that I can tell,” Anton replied a bit shakily, unbuckling his seat belt and rubbing his neck.  “Might have had some sense knocked into me, though,” he added dryly in an attempt to bring some humor to the situation.   

            “Holy moley,“ Patrick exclaimed, “I saw my life pass before my eyes---that was close!  What’s that hissing sound coming from under the hood of the bus?”

            Nicholas sized up the situation, “Broken water pump for starters, I’m afraid.  If you folks are OK, I better go check out the damage, we may be here awhile.”

            Simon took a deep breath as a wave of nausea passed.  “You look a little green around the edges, Simon,” Jean observed not unkindly.  

            “I…I dreamed this would happen…I dreamed it just now.”

            Patrick, Jean and Anton exchanged uncomfortable glances.  “Well, praise God,” Jean surmised sensibly, “looks like we’re all intact, let’s see if Nicholas needs help.”

            They filed out of the bus into the black, wet night.  Pulling up hoods and putting on stocking caps, they shivered in the damp cold as they congregated around Nicholas.  As his flashlight caught the obvious extent of the damage in its beam, he apologized, “it doesn’t look like we’ll be reaching our destination tonight.  This bus isn’t going anywhere without some major fixing.”

            Silver clouds scudded across the moon, the heavens clearing momentarily as the five new friends stood forlornly along the guard rail gazing into a river below that sparkled in the moon light. “Always trust the river of faith,” Anton quietly prophesied, “this is the stuff of divine adventure.”  

11. Destination Unknown  

            “Well, adventure or not, we can’t just stand here,” Simon advised finally, following a lengthy silence between the comrades as they considered their predicament. “Do we call a tow truck or what?” 

            “The map doesn’t list any town for sixty miles or so,” Nicholas explained.  “We’re in the middle of nowhere basically.  I tried my cell right away to call for help but couldn’t get a signal.  Can any of you?”

            Brightening at the idea of getting help on the way as soon as possible, they pulled out their phones and quickly found their hopes dashed. Not a signal was to be had by any of them.

            “This is g-g-getting way too weird,” Patrick stammered, his stuttering becoming more pronounced under the strain of the situation. Putting a reassuring arm around the young man, Jean suggested returning to the shelter of the bus.  

            They passed the night fitfully, dozing on the cramped seats as best they could. Morning dawned golden and luminous, alive with the sound of birds and woodland creatures.  For the first time, the group was able to get a clear picture of their surroundings.  The bus was shoved up against the guard rail, the front end crumpled---and not a single vehicle had passed since their ordeal began.  The highway they were on was narrow and wove through dense woods, so thick you could not see beyond the edge.  Lush foliage crept up to the roadside and tree limbs intermittently hung umbrella-like over the road like canopies, glossy leaves dripping with last night’s rain. 

                        Simon opened his suitcase which he had loaded with cat food and flipped the tab on a tin for Marmalade.  Unlatching the pet carrier, he let the cat out to stretch his legs and enjoy a good breakfast.  Marmalade, being an exceptionally perceptive and intelligent cat had not complained during the night, seeming to sense that they were in trouble.

            “Holy Toledo, I’m starving!” Patrick exclaimed as the strong aroma of Marmalade‘s tuna, chicken and rice entrée filled the air, “What’s there to eat?”

            “Nothing that will fill up your bottomless stomach,” Jean replied sagely, smothering a sneeze in her handkerchief.  “Oh drat, I think I’ve caught a cold…”

            In the light of day, the travelers looked a bit worse for wear.  Anton had a nasty bruise forming on his cheek where he had hit the window and Simon’s arthritic limp was definitely worse---no surprise there---after trying to sleep in a crunch all night.

            “About a mile back, I remember seeing a sign that said Wild Violet Cafe,” Nicholas said, “just minutes before that run-away pony skittered across the road.  It must be one of those out-of-the way, shack-type places you see out here occasionally.”

            “I say we check it out,” Jean said, with the air of a born leader.  “We can sit here doing nothing and wait for God knows how long for someone to drive by, or we can see if this cafe has a phone.”

            Walking along the unfamiliar highway on such a beautiful day with the sun warming his back reminded Simon of the time when, as a boy, he got separated from his parents in a large department store and became lost.  Running from one aisle to another, he kept pleading anxiously, “Have you seen my mom and dad?” A buxom woman in  a lavender dress, old lady shoes and white hair pinned under a hairnet smelling of sachet and pancakes had gathered him up and said kindly, “You’re not lost.  See, honey, your parents are right over there.”  As the lovely memory came back to him he thought, “How did she know?”   

12.  Time Stands Still

            It did not take them long at all to walk a mile back to the sign, where there it was indeed, hand-lettered on a weathered board with an arrow pointing.  By then, carrying fifteen pound Marmalade in his carrier was wearing Simon out and they took turns---while the cat peered out with great interest at the unfolding adventure, his purring sounding like a battery operated toy truck Simon used to have.  Shading their eyes with their hands, the group could see that a rutted, obviously well-used gravel road led to their destination.  As they trekked along, their shoes crunching on the loose granite, a meadow lark called from the tall prairie grass that flanked the shallow ditches.  In Simon’s imagination, its repetitive whistle seemed to say, “This way---this way,” causing him to smile to himself.

            “Hey, what’re you smiling at?”  Patrick asked, slowing his lanky stride to match Simon’s shorter one.

            “Ohhhh, just the fact that I’m glad to be alive, glad I’m here, and glad to have met you all.”

            “Likewise,” Patrick replied, suddenly exclaiming, “Hey, would you look at that!”

            The road abruptly dropped off into a valley and stretched immediately below was a sprawling small town with the road running right down the center of a colorful main street.  They could see folks visiting on wooden benches and children pulling wagons. There was a red and white barber shop pole and an American flag billowing in front of an imposing building with the words Library etched in its limestone facade. On the right side of the street, between The Five and Dime and Harold’s Hardware, sat a friendly building with a crisp purple and white awning and the words Wild Violet Café.

            “Yahoo!”  Patrick shouted.

            Grins broke out as the five stepped over the edge of the road and began the descent down hill.  The warm spring air seemed to change abruptly as with each step, the air grew chillier---not in a bad way, but in a refreshing way. The current reminded Simon of the dreams he had of the cool, all embracing ocean of infinity. 

            When they reached the side walk, two young boys who were shooting marbles looked up amicably, both chomping on Bazooka chewing gum. “What’s the name of this town?”  Simon asked.

            “Don’t you know anything?” the one with the Howdy Doody T-Shirt answered politely.  “Time Stands Still, of course.  Hey mister, can we pet your cat?”

13.  Little Did They Know…

          After visiting with the boys and giving them a chance to stroke the ever-congenial orange feline who viewed any stranger as a friend he hadn’t met yet, the companions strolled down the side walk to the Wild Violet Café. Despite the quaint shops they could have stopped at along the way, they all unanimously had one thought in mind: breakfast.

            There were window boxes planted with violets, geraniums and marigolds below the large plate glass windows on either side of the door. Painted canary yellow, it had three large glass diamonds down its center, each with the word Welcome painted on it.  As they walked in, a tiny brass bell made a musical, tinkling sound.

            Just inside the door a large glass display counter held a variety of pies, bread, rolls and cakes, along with rows of assorted chocolates.  Simon took one look at it all and drawled, “I’m in heaven…”

            From behind the counter a tall, elderly woman with white hair coiled under a hairnet laughed richly, “Well, I’ve heard that a time or two.  What can I get you folks?”

            “Breakfast?” they asked in unison.

            “Have a seat at the counter,” she invited, sliding five plastic-protected menus in front of the nearest stools.  Where you folks from?” 

            Swiveling back and forth on the stool, Patrick replied, “Our bus had an accident on the highway and we found our way here.  We’re heading for Lake Eternity.  Ever been there?”

            The woman gave him a penetrating glance as she set out glasses of water for them each.  “Yesssssss, I’m actually from there.”

            “No kidding!”

            The handsome woman whose name tag said Delle Viola nodded, her face a roadmap of folds and wrinkles that softened imperceptibly at the mention of the lake. 

            Behind her on the shelf, the song, Straighten Up and Fly Right by Nat King Cole played on an old-fashioned radio in a curved walnut cabinet.  Musing that the woman seemed vaguely familiar, Simon found himself studying the large calendar on the wall with the portrait of Harry S. Truman on it, inscribed with the year l947.

 

 

14.  Intercession

 

            “Meanwhile, back at the ranch…” Polly said aloud, wondering what Simon was up to at the moment, “Probably sitting in some boring, old meeting.”  Simon often had to deal with a lot of what she called ‘church basement politics,’ which in Polly’s words, “would drive me nuts.” 

            In the course of just one day, he listened respectfully to complaints about protocol, improper hymn selection, the fact that some parishioners wanted to reshingle the church roof and others said it didn’t need it while coping with varying opinions about his sermons---described by some as too daring while others said his enunciation or theology was off.  There seemed to be nothing that escaped scrutiny and divisiveness and in Polly’s opinion, people filtered their opinions through their own needs, prejudices, upbringing, character and agenda’s.

            Simon’s blood pressure had been what Doc Holland called dangerously high lately and Polly blamed it on the pressures of his ministry.  “You need a break, Simon,” she told him and “if you don’t ease up, you’ll kill yourself.”  She knew he needed a change of pace and that the physical work and creativity of restoring the mansion into a retreat house renewed him and provided an outlet for stress.

            But still, he had dark hollows under his eyes that worried her and sometimes, she caught him slumped in his recliner with his head lolled to the side, exhausted and having fallen sound asleep while working on tribunal papers scattered in his lap.

            Always one who enjoyed her own company and talking to herself, Polly looked at the glass vase she had filled with the wild violets she had found strewn on the chapel altar.

She also thought of the bible that Simon said fell off the shelf by itself, falling open to under-lined passages no less.  “God,” she said, “if you’re trying to get a message across, signs and wonders are fine, but I need a clearer approach if you don’t mind.” 

            Polly liked to enter her prayer requests on a sheet of paper like a grocery list. Simon teased her a few times, asking how her Things to Do list for God was coming along.  “God and I have an understanding between us,” was all she would say, her lips curving up at the corners.  “God knows I’m bossy,” she said as she got some lip balm out of her pocket and smeared a generous application around her mouth. 

            She kept her prayer lists in a drawer in the kitchen and pulling out the newest sheet, grabbed a pen and wrote, “Help Simon find rest, peace and quiet.” Pausing a moment, she added on the next line, “Enlighten those who bring misery to others.”

15.  Sour Grapes

            As Delle set out enticing plates of her famous egg bake smothered in cheddar cheese and filled with sausage, onion and green pepper, she noticed Anton’s bruise on his cheek.  “You need some ice for that.”

          Touching it gingerly, he confessed, “it does hurt a little.”  Anton wore his thin gray hair tied back in a pony tail with a leather cord, though unruly strands had escaped to hang untidily about his appealing face. 

            Noting his weathered skin and deep crow’s feet around his corn flower blue eyes, Delle asked as she dumped some ice from the cooler into a cotton dishtowel and handed it to him, “…so, you’re a farmer?”

            “Yup.  All my life, when I wasn’t teaching anthropology at the local college.  Miss both, retired now.  I still do some mentoring though, which keeps me going.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            “Well, for some reason, folks in trouble seem to find their way to me,” Anton said.   “Always have. Until my ex-wife died, she used to say that I have the gift, but mostly I just listen and encourage people to look in here.”  Tapping his chest he added, “It’s all right there.”

            “What do you mean by ‘it’?”

            “Wisdom, God, insight, answers…”

            The bell on the front door dinged and a shadow fell as a patron approached.  Carrying a brief case and pushing back his fedora, he chose a stool at the end of the counter, leaving a big space between himself and the others.  Loosening his tie, he demanded of Delle, “Can’t a man get a cup of coffee in this town?” 

            Taking her time, she got the pot and poured him a cup.  “Frank, do you always have to be so rude?’

            “If you knew what I go through every day at the bank, you’d say the same thing, Delle. You have no idea.” 

            Sighing, Delle said not unkindly, “We all have our troubles, Frank.”

            “Yeah, well, I only care about mine.”

            Delle and Anton exchanged knowing glances that perceptive people who look at life and faith the same way can do. “A regular?”  Anton whispered behind his napkin.

            Delle nodded.  “A real challenge if ever there was one.”

            Frank scowled as he dropped six cubes of sugar in his coffee.  “What’re you whispering about down there---and what’s that filthy cat doing in here?”

16.  Pilgrim’s Progress

            Marmalade genially stuck a paw out through his carrier screen, playfully trying to catch a fly that went buzzing by. He was an old cat and had been with Simon since he was a kitten, now nearly a dozen years ago.

            Simon had moved into a small rectory at the time behind the Catholic school and stray cats often ended up on his back porch looking for handouts.  One winter night during a snow storm, when he was taking the trash out, he heard a pitiful meowing.  There, at the bottom of the cold metal trash can was a tiny orange kitten.  It had apparently jumped in looking for food, but could not get out.  It took one look at Simon and shrank back, hissing. 

            “Scrappy little thing, aren’t you?” Simon had said as he gently picked up the trash can and carried it into his house.  There, he tipped it out on its side and the kitten scrambled under the sofa.  Simon put out food, water and litter box in the corner and sat down to watch the history channel.  Eventually, the starving kitten slunk out, gobbled the food and hid back under the sofa.  This went on for nearly a week, until the kitten, dubbed Marmalade by then, felt safe enough to venture out into the world, which was Simon’s living room.

            Simon did not try to coax Marmalade but rather, let the little cat take his time and come to him.  It took an inordinately long time but eventually, Simon discovered why.  Marmalade had a broken tail, parasites, a deep cough and matted fur.  Obviously, he’d been through the wringer as Simon put it and most likely had been abused.

            As winter crept toward spring, Marmalade grew in leaps and bounds, becoming mischievous as a young cat should be.  While at first he was silent and guarded, as he grew to trust and feel safe, he also began to communicate and express himself by purring and making happy chirring sounds. The last hurdle was allowing himself to be picked up with complete confidence, rather than stiffening like a board and extending all twenty claws in protest. 

            Simon wrote a column about Marmalade’s progress, entitling it The Power of Nurture. Now, remembering and looking at Frank sullenly sitting ramrod straight at the end of the counter, he wondered what had happened (or not happened) in the man’s life that led him to such a state of negativity.  

17.  A Clue

            “Relax…sink into peace and tranquility, releasing all troubling thoughts to divine care …”   Soothing music accompanied the serene voice on the tape that Polly was playing as she synchronized her yoga poses with the guiding instructions.  Today, she was too keyed up to concentrate and got up impatiently from her mat, doing a few head, neck and shoulder rolls.

            “My neck is killing me,” she winced, absently kneading it with her fingers. She smiled ruefully, remembering Simon’s words about her chronic condition: “That’s what happens when you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Polly had retorted, eyes twinkling “Well, we type A’s think that’s our job. Somebody’s got to do it.” 

            Simon had thrown back his head and laughed. “Ever heard the motto Practice What You Preach?”

            “That Simon,” Polly thought fondly, “what a kidder.” He and Marmalade had been gone for two days now and she could not reach him.  The phone lines were repaired and working and she couldn’t get through to his cellular phone, which was unheard of.  Earlier that morning, Sebastian had called the house, saying he needed to get Simon’s permission to reprint a series of poems Simon had written, but could not reach his cell either.  He also told Polly that Simon had sounded mysteriously vague about his trip, which was unlike him. As everyone knew, Simon was a detail person.

            “Well, certainly too soon to be concerned,” Polly had said reassuringly.  But now, here she was, the one worried. The mansion seemed awfully quiet as she went about her dusting---too quiet. She thought about Simon’s plans to open the house for retreats within the next month.  “We need some life in this mausoleum,” she agreed, “the sooner the better.”

            She really liked the ideas Simon had.  The roomy, expanded dining room now held six long trestle tables and benches and Simon had converted the drawing room into a gathering room. Containing numerous sofas he’d purchased at flea markets and plump chairs for relaxing and small group sharing, he had everything nearly ready for guests. Carpenters and plumbers had cleared out, bathrooms updated and the two dozen or so bedrooms were ready and waiting.  It was all coming together, including a small housekeeping staff that she and Simon had interviewed and hired, funded by the small inheritance Simon had received from his sister Ruth’s estate. Competent Polly liked giving orders and was relishing telling her crew what to do. As Simon had quipped, “Someone’s gotta float this old boat!”

            “Teamwork,” Polly thought philosophically, “that’s what life is all about.” Sunlight was streaming in through the stained glass windows and setting down her rag and furniture polish, Polly opened wide the front door, gazing out at the still wilderness that spanned as far as the eye could see.  “We may be out in the middle of nowhere but that’s what people like when they’re getting away from it all.  A complete change of scenery…”

             “Where is that Simon, anyway?” 

 

            She was about to step back inside when suddenly an isolated gust of wind ruffled past her, tossing the baseball cap she was wearing to the floor and knocking a framed poster off the entry wall with a crash, cracking the glass. “Ohhhhh noooo,” Polly lamented, shaking her head in dismay. Picking up Simon’s beloved, yellowed print of his favorite childhood book, Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown, it was signed and dated by the author and given to Simon the year he was born, 1947, by his sister, Ruth, thirteen at the time.  “Well, I’ll just have the glass replaced,” Polly decided, smiling at the fetching little rabbit portrayed in the picture. 

 

18.  Shock

            “Frank,” Delle said pointedly, “that cat is my guest and I don’t want to hear another word about it from you, thanks very much.” 

            Frank rolled his eyes.  “What’s this world coming to?”  Knowing Delle had the final word in her café, he changed the subject.  “You folks staying the night?”

            “Not planning to…” they all said in unison and burst out laughing at the synchronicity and mutual dislike of Frank.

            Nicholas swiveled his stool to face Frank.  “Like I was telling Delle, our bus broke down.”

            “Uh-huh.” Frank was already losing interest. 

            Suddenly, there was a loud, clapping sound like thunder that rattled the row of Waterford stemware dishes used for chocolate Sundaes and malts.  Delle involuntarily jumped.  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to those sonic booms, they always startle me!”

            “Well, better get used to it,” Frank said skeptically, dropping a few coins in the dish to pay for his coffee.  “This is l947, the modern age--- and it’s only going to get worse.  When man can travel in an airplane faster than the speed of sound, human kind has surpassed what the Almighty intended. Not that I believe in God…” he concluded, strolling out without a backward glance.

            “Ohhhh, that man,” Delle exclaimed. “Sometimes, I would like to give him a piece of my mind.  But then, I remember that his wife and daughter died, and I give him the space and time he needs.  Not that I think isolation and bitterness are good…”  Her voice trailed off as she turned up the volume of the radio.  A suave interviewer’s words rose above the static, “We have a special treat for you listeners out there, Jackie Robinson of the Brooklyn Dodgers is in the studio!  How does it feel to be the first African American to play in the major leagues, Mr. Robinson?”

            Shocking everyone, Patrick jumped up from his stool, clapping.  “Is this some kind of joke, like Candid Camera?  Or is this a little nostalgic enactment you put on to drum up business? Very good!  You had me going for a moment---I’m really impressed.  The drama was exceptionally believable! Is Frank coming back to take a bow?”

            Delle turned compassionate, knowing eyes to the group.  “I…I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve been sent back in time to l947 for a reason which is yet to be revealed. You won’t be able to leave until the time is right…no one can. ”

            Incredulously, Patrick, Jean, Nicholas and Simon stared at her with their mouths open in disbelief.  Speaking for them all, Anton, in his direct manner did not hesitate to respond.  “Are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

 

 

19.  One of Their Own

 

            While alarmed and feeling sorry for the old woman, Simon felt an unexpected thrill within---that certainly did not make sense or seem appropriate.  Delle was so likeable and came across as exceptionally grounded and of sound mind.  To suddenly realize that she was delusional, or as Polly would have said, ’off her rocker’ was disturbing and sad, to say the least.  Yet, deep down, her words resonated with Simon. He undeniably felt a strong pull to this town and 1947.

 

          “You can’t possibly believe you could hold us hostage here, Madame,” Anton continued, returning Delle’s candid eye contact with concerned goodwill. “I sincerely hope you are under the care of a psychologist.”  He got up and moved toward the door, along with Jean, Nicholas and Patrick.  “Come on, Simon---foremost, we have our mission to think of, let’s walk back to the bus and hitchhike ahead from there.”   

            “This is about the mission,” Delle said quietly.

            Simon turned to her and said more sharply than he intended, “What do you know about the mission?”

            From behind the lunch counter, Delle took her hands out of her apron pockets, walked over to the ornate cash register and pressed a button; it sprang open and from the back, she took out a small object which she held out in her palm.  “See, I have the medal, as I’m sure do all of you.” 

            On the radio, a peppy jingle advertising Ajax cleanser came on while the room became stock still, as if time were holding its breath. In one accord, the travelers retraced their steps, drawn back by her words. They recognized the silver medallion immediately, with its beloved familiar insignia and green emerald.  After all, they each had one just like it. 

            “I..I hardly know what to say,” Simon said. “Perhaps you’d better explain all this.” 

20.  Guardian Angels

          When Simon was gone, Polly usually moved in and stayed nights until he returned because it was easier than running back and forth.  “Not that this old place is going anywhere,” she laughed to herself.  She was used to the odd creaks the house made and felt completely at home.  She spent the afternoon making homemade rolls and a variety of casseroles, which she froze for Simon.  She also decided it was time to clean out closets as she liked things neat as a pin. 

            Tackling the front hall closet, which was overflowing with boxes of outdated church bulletins, reference books, Simon’s golf clubs and out of season satin and felt banners, Polly decided to begin by taking everything out.  She had a trash bag for stuff to throw---which she was notorious for---and the plan was to hang Simon’s winter coats at the back and move his spring jackets to the more accessible front.

            As she methodically went about her task, she began to have a feeling that she was not alone.  Actually, she’d felt that way earlier, when she was in the chapel gathering up the wild violets.  Not one to put much stock in what she called ‘imaginings of the mind’ she shrugged and taking her bottle of orange-scented spray cleanser and paper towels, wiped off the top shelf in the closet.  There was nothing like cleaning to make a person feel on top of life, she always said.

            As she began restacking Simon’s monopoly game, chess set, bible trivia and wood burning kit on the shelf, she had such a sudden, pronounced feeling once again that she was not alone, that it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.  Secretly, she had found Simon’s sermons and columns about the spirituality of intuition a bit for the birds, but now, as his words came back to her, she wished she had paid closer attention.

            There was a knock on the door.  “Cheese and crackers!”  Polly exclaimed under her breath, “hold your horses, I’m coming.”  The UPS truck often came late this time of day with Simon’s various retreat materials he’d begun ordering.  However, as she pulled the heavy door open, there stood Sebastian with Bixby, his beagle.

            Sebastian and Simon were both like sons to Polly and her face lit up as Bixby raced in, looking for Marmalade.  “Something told me I should stop by,” Sebastian said.  “Is that my favorite hamburger/cabbage casserole I smell?”  (End of Chapter One.)

A Deeper Look:  Parish and Book Club Study Guide for Chapter One

 We are all born with an innate sense of the mystical---the longing for divine adventure that beckons us from the deepest realms within.  As Adolfo Quezada writes in Compassionate Awareness: Living Life to the Fullest, “What is this state we call our life?  Will we come to know its secret?  It is so fragile, and yet so vital; ethereal, yet rooted in the depths of our soul.”  He goes on to explain, “We are connected to our creator and to all who have ever lived, and who are yet to live…through a kindred connection that cannot be severed even by death.  It is a spiritual union…”  Indeed, we are each called to be a living link in a great chain of holiness that extends from generation to generation. 

In the opening of Divine Adventures, we find Simon living the most ordinary of lives.  We begin discovering who he is through his love of Doo Wop music, chocolate brownies, his little bedroom off the kitchen, his column The Heavenly Glimmer, the lapel pin of two peas in a pod, given to him by his late sister Ruth and much more.  The colorful likes, dislikes and character quirks that reveal who he is are in the intimate details, just as it is for us. It is also what makes us care about Simon.  As the story unfolds and we meet Simon’s eccentric friends, we feel pulled into the drama because we want to know what is going to happen to them. The mysterious mission intrigues us and we wonder what this allusion to spiritual mysticism is all about. 

Quezada teaches, “Mystical living is awakened living.  It is a plane of reality that is beyond the superficial nature of ordinary living.  This takes place amidst the trivial, the mundane and the commonplace and it is animated by the realization of a greater reality.  A mystic is simply a person who has fallen in love with the creator and the created.”  Following the bus crash, as Simon and his new friends walk along the highway, they come to the sign pointing the way to The Wild Violet Café.  Following the arrow, as the road descends into a valley below---the travelers find themselves enveloped by a refreshing coolness. Rather than suggesting a ghostly cold spot, it represents their entering a new realm of awakening that will teach them many things.  We encounter experiences that offer us new ways of looking at life and faith all the time.  We too are called to awakened, mystical living.  As Quezada writes, we are compelled by our compassionate awareness to descend into the valley of ordinary living to tend the world for God.   

In the simplest of terms, those very words hint at the divine mission we ourselves may feel called to through the pages of this novel.  “The rebirth of our compassionate soul,” Quezada promises, “is like suddenly waking up from sleepwalking.  We realize that we have been coming and going without being fully conscious of what we have been doing.  Now we begin acting in the world instead of reacting to it.  We are awakened to love, forgiveness, understanding, and the divine wisdom that emanates from our deepest self.  We are the incarnation in the world.”

Prayer:  Dear God upon Whom We Place Our Trust:  Like Simon, we do not know what lies ahead in our quest to greater understanding of ourselves, others and our mission in the world---but we welcome the adventure and the love that guides us.  Amen. 

1. In the opening of the book, section 4, we read about Simon’s first childhood death experience through the loss of his grandfather.  What memories does this evoke of your own first experience with death?

2. In section 5, as Simon is preparing for his trip and closes his suitcase, it occurs to him that he is also packing up memories and making peace with the past.  What are some memories of yours that come to mind?

3. The mud Simon has to navigate in section 6 to reach the bus is symbolic of that which holds us back from achieving our dreams, potential or calling.  What holds you back in life?

4. In section 14, Simon teases Polly about her ‘things to do list’ for God---which is really her personal intercessory prayer list.  How do you pray for others?

5. In sections 17 and 20, Polly is beginning to sense that something is amiss through her intuition and she is also getting the eerie feeling that she is not alone.  Both feelings are subtle, which she disregards.  What are some instances when you ignored your inner radar or instincts, only to wish later that you’d paid closer attention?