Chapter Two
Boston

     John Bird was sharpening the knife when Richard finally came down stairs one August morning. The still groggy nephew stared at the strobe of light coming from the knife each time John Bird passed it across the wet stone through a point of light lined up with the sun’s reflection bouncing off the thermometer outside the kitchen window. It flashed from the knife to the half frame reading glasses resting near the end of John Bird’s nose.
     “You will need some sweet grass for your journey,” he told Richard and pointing out a braid of the herb with the ceremonial knife.
     ...... Coffee was poured for Richard just as the rumble of Job’s car entered the farm drive. John Bird stayed his nephew with a hand to the shoulder indicating he would open the door for the guests. Richard fingered the ends of the sweet grass with his left hand while the right nervously lifted the coffee. He was anxious to get going on the trip with Rev. Matthews while at the same time fretting what this trip held in store for his future. All young candidates to seminary must wonder what sort of things will be asked in the interviews, and if they are up to the expectations. The local pastor advised Richard to avoid contact with the Native rituals; “Pagan influences,” he called them. Others told him he needed straight-A grades and he had a C-average with a sprinkling of B’s and D’s over the past four years. He may have spent as much time fretting about why he could be rejected from seminary as he daydreamed of what it would be like to be in seminary and eventually the Priesthood.
     Fresh baked bread, eggs and home-cured bacon made up the farewell breakfast. Job was proud to be seeing his new brother off on this journey. He gave Richard a package loosely wrapped in paper and tied with rough, brown hemp twine. To the touch it seemed to be a fabric item rolled into the paper.
     “For Father Nadar.”
     “You know him?”
     At this point it no longer surprised Richard how extensive his Anishinabe friends networked.
     “No.”
     “What’s in it?” Richard asked squeezing the package to determine for himself what it contained.
     “For Father Nadar,” Job repeated smiling at his friend’s curiosity.
     “Nothing for me?” He teased.
     Job handed Richard another package, larger, but wrapped in similar fashion. “As a mater of fact, Ja.”
     Job enjoyed the embarrassed look on Richard’s face when the second package was produced.
     “Open.”
     A handsome buckskin vest embroidered with beaded flowers in the Anishinabe tradition and leaves, hammered into the skin and dyed the colors of the four directions, was hoisted up. Richard eyed it with awe. He did not deem himself worthy of such generosity.
     “My aunt began making it for you the night after your vision.”
     “Which aunt?”
     “Anne Olson.”

     …… John Bird walked down the porch steps with Richard between him and the towering Rev. Matthews while Job followed behind. At ground level Richard noticed how dwarfed the five-foot-ten Job looked next to the minister who had to be no less that six-six. The farewell was a sad note for Uncle John. The heir-less elder knew that this departure could be the end of a brief life together as a family. From Richard’s view, he felt nothing but gratitude that despite losing his parents a new and extended family was here for him. The minister’s unselfish, non-judgmental service towards Richard never once hinted at being bothered by the separation of Christian disciplines that bitterly divided so many others. Contemplating these examples in his life, Richard started up the engine of his car.

     The Upper Peninsula of Michigan narrows to a point in its eastward stretch separating three Great lakes, Michigan, Superior and Huron. Here, on the south shore route, they had an excellent view of Green Bay and lake Michigan ahead of them. The glaring reflection of the sun forced involuntary muscles to protect the eyes. The pressure lifted whenever they passed groves of pine and birch on the shoreline side of the road. Miles of new forest lined M35 and US2 highways save for extensive breaks where sand dunes were still on the move. Scrawny birch or scraggly young pines attempted to anchor the dunes, but to no avail. Time, the patience of the wind and gradual shift in weight from drifting sand will bury those trees. Only a fragile looking reed will root with any success but even those have learned through the ages to move with the giant lords of the shore, less they too be buried in the sluggish, silent avalanche.
     Five hours after leaving the farm they were just outside St. Ignace, nearly to the eastern tip of the U.P. From this location, with clear weather, the tip of the Lower Peninsula can be seen. Clear air, filtered off the world’s largest reserve of fresh water, filled the lungs and awakened the road-weary duo. From an overlook just outside the town they surveyed the immense lake. Seagulls riding the currents of air dived after scraps of fish. Sometimes a dozen gulls dove after the same morsel of food squabbling with one another until the strongest, or luckiest bird claimed the tidbit and flew off while one or two other gulls made a half-hearted pursuit. They then drove into St. Ignace to find a room for the night.

……      [The next day,] they drove up to the scenic overlook. There, Richard took on the strong wind whipping up the cliff leaning ever so slightly into it letting its mighty force aid in holding him up. In his peripheral vision he noted the wind lift the long strands of Rev. Matthews’ hair. He was a mighty man standing there as strong as and as one with the ancient forces swirling about them. The minister looked up into the heavens, perhaps communing with those who walked on while Richard looked down at the sands a quarter mile below imagining the many feet that passed there before them. Marquette and a few Native Catechumens, Hiawatha, distant relative of Kateri Tekakwitha and countless others in their obscurity, alone or in small groups searching their visions have been here before.
     He thought he could hear a slow mournful drum beat come off the prodigious aquatic masses, each faint thunderous thump drifted towards them and rebounded off the sandstone precipice before the next drum beat sounded. Each time the Spirit Drummer hit his phantom drum skin the sound grew stronger, clearer, closer changing in tone until it sounded much like a foghorn.
     “Richard.”
     “Richard,” came the voice again, getting nearer.
     “Richard,” like someone trying to wake him from a pleasant dream to join in unpleasant chores.
     “Richard,” one more time bringing him to the present reality. “Our boat is coming in. We must go now.”
     And again, “Richard, we must go now.”
     The younger man nodded his head in humble affirmation.
     The opening and closing of the car doors tore through the natural sounds like a carriage bolt clanging on a thirty-o-six preparing to break the peace. Richard squinted as he turned the key anticipating the firing of the engine just as he had done at age nine when his father stood behind holding him and a rifle as he prepared to fire his first rifle-shot and missed, by half a mile at least, the glass bottle perched on a stump. When the spark caught the pressurized gas in the pistons and exploded he recalled the bursting fragments of glass as his father skillfully finished off the long neck brown bottle. How the tiny pieces sparkled in their final glory!

     …… Boston traffic and road patterns tested Richard’s ability to drive without cursing. They took the wrong turn several times. Traffic circles were new to Richard, but he followed the directions of angry honking horns to determine when he should make his move through a circle. Rev. Matthews showed him the Catholic Church Richard would be staying at during the Boston visit. It was an Oriental Greek-Syrian Church, a ritual he had never heard of before.
     Father Yusif Nadar was delighted to meet Richard who was introduced previously through a letter from Rev. Matthews. The clergymen met during the Spanish-American War as chaplains and kept up correspondence all these years. ……….
     “I am told you want to be a priest?”
     “I have often thought about it.”
     “Have you discussed this with your pastor?”
     “A little in the past with pastors I no longer have contact with; once with my present pastor.”
     “I read in Reverend Matthews’ letter that there is some distance between you and your present pastor on this subject because you attended powwow and a couple of Protestant services on Sunday instead of Mass.”
     “Ja.”
     “Have you been to an Eastern Catholic or Orthodox Liturgy before?”
     “A what?”
     “Mass other than at a Roman Catholic Latin Church?”
     “Never.”
     “Your answers are about as lengthy as many of Reverend Matthews,” the priest joked, trying to encourage Richard to open up more.

     …… The bottom of the silver bowl came level with his eyes, it’s plating worn to the copper base, and stayed a moment, restrained in it flight by four chains, each containing three bells. As the bowl made its return, pendulum style, he took in the cloud of incense left behind. The tiny particles of sweet smelling carbon entering the susceptible lungs unexpectedly caused him to gag and cough. For a moment the ceremony separated from him. The cantors were once again standing before their circle of chairs. The black veiled deacon was seasoning the corners of the worship space with his ceremonial bowl of incense. The bells called attention to something greater than those gathered in the small chapel. That something was the Great Mystery announced by the deacon when he told the Priest, “Master, now it is time for the Lord to act.”
     Divine Eucharistic Liturgy began, the first of the Oriental rituals for Richard. The service was as elaborate as it was simple; becoming as it was confusing [as] the less familiar strains of Arabic and Greek chant filled the assembly in the opening rites.
     “For peace from on high and the salvation of our souls, let us pray to the Lord,” declared the Deacon in a high tenor voice, singing a string of petitions.
     The Kyrie Eleison-s and Lord have Mercy-s flowed from the seminarians after each prayer.
     “For this holy place and for those who enter it with faith, reverence and fear of God, let us pray to the Lord.”
     Everything around him churned into one single act of worship until the cloud of incense brought him around. Now the assembly was bowing down, touching the ground and rising up blessing themselves as they sang in Arabic, Greek and English a thrice-holy hymn of praise: “Quduson Illah,” intoned Fr. Nadar with the others following in, “Quduson Ilqawee, Quduson Ilathee, laya-mutur-hamna.”
     In Greek: “Agios O Theos, Agios Iskiros, Agios Athanatos, eleison-e-mas.”
     “Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us.”

     Each day Richard shared in some aspect of the seminary life, including washing dishes and pruning the grounds. Just over half of the seminarians were from a monastic group that staffs the Syriac Church throughout the country. The rest were preparing for Deaconate or Diocesan positions. Father Gregory, a fifty-five year old deacon, had established a hermitage in Ohio about twenty years ago. He returned to the seminary to be ordained a priest. Fr. Nadar suggested Richard should talk with Father Gregory about a hermit’s life, but reminded Richard that the seminary was not to be used for individual visions.
     “If you come here, you are subject to the needs of the bishop.”

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