Kyrie Eleison

I came across this tonight, a fictional  piece I wrote during Lent at the beginning of the war in Afghanistan.  My boyfriend at the time was serving for the Air National Guard and I was house sitting, had begun going to Mass again (at a liturgically-challenged parish) and was truly seeking my way back to Christ.  This story came to me during Mass; there is more to it and I will share if there is interest. Please know that, as you read, IF you read it, this account was written in complete ignorance of liturgical norms and of course, of attitudes of real people serving overseas. I pulled from things in the news at that time and from, what I realize now, was a deepening understanding of the real meaning of Sacrifice. The following story is more about the mystical reality of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass than anything else, and I pray that is transmitted.
***

The Mass began like a normal Lenten Mass, with a silent procession up the aisle, the congregation standing....waiting. The piano began to play soft background music as Father began the opening prayer. At intervals the choir and congregation sang the penitential rite:

"Kyr-i-e Ele-i-son! Chri-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-ri-e E-le-i-son!"

Mary bent her head, praying, singing along, wishing her son was with her. She wished this horrible war was over and her family could be back together again. Mary's husband Michael and their teenage daughter, Christy, stood on each side of her, and they all felt John's absence acutely. Theirs wasn't the only family member absent today; each week a Mass was dedicated to the parishioners who were serving their country in Iraq.

Father, intoned, "We offer this Mass today for Lance Corporal John Ames, 3rd Infantry, U.S. Marine Corps...."

"Lord, hear our prayer," responded the congregation.

Tears filled Mary's eyes, so touched was she by the support they'd received from their parish community. She hadn't heard from John since he left for the war. He was somewhere in Iraq; in that hot, horrible desert, doing his duty as he'd pledged when he joined the military. She prayed that Jesus walked beside him and his fellow soldiers. Around her, silently, the other parishioners did the same. Many felt the same anguish.

Ky-rie E-le-i-son, Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-r-ie E-le-i-son!**

(**Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.**)

*********************************

John knelt in the sand, stood in the sand and tried to breathe through the sand as the storm swirled around him. It was Sunday morning in America, and he thought of his family going to Mass, the devout Catholics that they were. He wished he was there. He wondered when he'd be able to go home again. And he wondered when this terrible sandstorm would pass. The wind was dying down, but until it did, progress would be very slow. At the moment they were all hunkered down, searching for the shelter they knew was there - if they could only get there. Although they were in their camp, it was easy to get lost and lose their bearings just from going from one tent to another!

John sat on the first cot he came to and pulled out his tablet. He was going to take the lull in battle to write a letter to his family as they waited for the storm to die down. He was keeping a collection of letters as he had no access to e-mail due to his job and mobility in the war. When he had the opportunity, he planned to send them all, in order.

Dear Mom, Dad, and Christy,

I know you won't get this letter for a long time as there is no way to mail anything from this God-forsaken place. But please know that you're in my thoughts and prayers every day. I can't wait to come home. Currently we are in the midst of yet another storm (see previous letters). Have you been keeping a tally? It seems that no sooner does one end that another begins! It makes me very nervous to be out here not knowing if our air support will be able to follow through due to weather conditions.

But we are doing our jobs and all is going well. There have been very few casualties. Of course some are expected, it is a war, after all, but it's better not to think about that. Don't worry too much about me over here, especially you, Mom. We're very well trained, very careful, and very much looking forward to coming home.

P.S. Can we have grilled steak with your special marinade and corn on the cob for dinner when I get back? :)

Well, we're being called....gotta go. Will write more later. Take care, and....will you please pray for me? And for all of us over here? I know you already are, every day. Thanks, from all of us!

Love and miss you all,

John

He tucked the latest installment into his fatigues, keeping them all together to be sent to his family as soon as he was able. John picked up his weapon and walked into the desert, ready to embark on their next mission.

They learned that radar had picked up a line of Iraqi troops in the "surrender" position that the U.S. Military had detailed to them. The command staff cautioned them to be sure it wasn't an ambush, and to be ready to fight. They moved into the desert, into the darkness, guided by their contour maps and night vision goggles.

Kyr-ie E-le-i-son...Chr-ist-e E-le-i-son! Ky-r-i-e E-le-i-son.

*******************************************

Mary sat listening to the sermon that day. Father was talking about the inclination of humans to want to strike out against their enemies. But he cautioned to not get so caught up so as to dehumanize others.

"We are all called to acts of compassion as a demonstration of love. And that is hardest when the people most in need of our compassion are ‘the enemy.’Try to remember that God doesn't play politics...He loves us all. He sees us all with the same eyes, created us all in the same image, and expects us to do as Jesus taught...accept each other in His love..."

Mary closed her eyes, thinking of John, fighting in the desert against young men just like him or older men like his father; with families, children and others who loved them. She had no quarrel with the people; she only wanted her son home safe - just as did all the mothers in Iraq.

Ky-rie E-le-i-son...Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-ri-e E-le-i-son...

****************************************

John approached the sand berm carefully, weapon locked and loaded. Was this a surrender or an ambush? Were there wounded they would carry out?

He saw the white flags and a few Iraqi soldiers on their knees, waiting, speaking in their tongues, trying to be understood. John, although a "killing machine" by training, was compassionate through upbringing. He unconsciously lowered his weapon as he tried to understand what they said.

Too late, he realized it was a ploy. The entire unit was surrounded by these men. The Americans fought bravely, but one by one they began to fall, their lives given to God and their country. There was nowhere for the remaining soldiers to run. John didn't want to be a POW, but he knew that if he didn't surrender, he'd be killed for certain.

John fell to his knees, both hands upraised, rifle held pointing aloft in his right. Staring into the mute, deadly eyes of the Iraqi weapons, he dropped his own, conceding his freedom in preservation of his life.

John and his fellow soldiers knelt there, hands raised while they were searched and cleared of any potential weapons. Had there been fewer Iraqis, they would have fought; but all knew it was futile, and all were choosing to submit. They had been trained in what to do if ever captured, so John waited, letting his training and, more importantly, his Faith take over.

The prayer came to him out of nowhere and he grasped it, repeating aloud, but almost under his breath,  "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy."

The Iraqi soldiers stopped in their approach, understanding that he was not speaking English...what did he say? No matter...they went forward and grabbed him and the few others roughly, pulling them to their feet. All were wounded from the battle, although not severely. Those with leg injuries were not carried, though...they were forced to walk, leaving trails of blood behind them which were quickly absorbed into the sand.

After marching for a short time the Iraqi soldiers stopped and forced the prisoners to their knees. A group of them stood behind the POW's and John felt the cold, hard steel of the Iraqi weapon pressed against the back of his head.

He looked up at the enemy in front of him and saw no compassion; only dark, gloating eyes. He vaguely wondered if that was his expression when he'd killed their troops. John wondered if this was the end, and he prayed to God, asking for forgiveness for the lives he'd taken. He thought of his family back home, probably still sitting at Mass, and prayed that they would be strong when they received the news. He panicked for awhile, thinking of them; of his life unfinished.

A sense of calm overcame him. An eye in the storm. John felt that he was going to die and he asked Jesus to meet him, to forgive him, and to preserve his soul in heaven. He had no access to the final Sacraments…all he had was hope in Divine Mercy.

The rifle clicked behind him as the commander gave the word to the firing squad. Overcome suddenly, inexplicably John sang softly, defiantly in the face of his enemy,  "Ky-r-i-e....E-le-i-son...Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-r-i-e El-e-i-son!....Kyr-i-e E-le-i-son, Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-rie E-le-i-son.... "

His brother soldiers, to his surprise, took up the musical litany and sang with him, "Ky-r-ie, E-le-i-son! Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son, Ky-r-i-e E-le-i-son!...."

John felt the steel barrel pulled away from the back of his head as the soldier behind him stepped back, not sure how to respond. They hadn't expected this! John looked straight into the eyes of the Commander, still singing. He saw something there...a brief moment of compassion maybe? A respite? A realization that these POW's were men just like him? Their eyes locked in a moment of understanding and the Commander began to raise his hand. A sharp word from another Iraqi officer stopped him and the shadow fell across him again. The gun pushed hard against his head once again; and yet John and his fellow soldiers sang, waiting...

Waiting......

Kyr-i-e E-le-i-son! Chr-i-ste E-le-i-son! Ky-r-i-e E-le-i-son!.....

**********************************************

At the beginning of the liturgy of the Eucharist, the parishioners prayed aloud, "May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of His name, for our good and the good of all His Church..."

The priest blessed the bread and wine consecrating them in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, transforming them into the body, blood, soul, and divinity of Jesus Christ.

"This is my Body and this is my Blood. It shall be given for you and for many in forgiveness of sin..."

Mary was suddenly and inexplicably overcome with emotion, and something even beyond: she actually seemed to feel the presence of Jesus, far beyond what she had EVER experienced.  At the moment the Sacred Host was raised high, the Ames family unconsciously joined hands and bowed their heads, unified in the same sensation of being bathed in the love of Christ; in the absolute meaning of His Sacrifice. They became a part of it in a way they did not yet understand.

The congregation prayed, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the Word and I shall be healed."

To themselves, John's family also prayed silently, none understanding why, "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison (Lord have Mercy, Christ have Mercy) My Lord and My God!"

************************************************

As John knelt in that dark foreign desert, the enemy's rifle against the back of his head, he continued to sing for God's mercy. He looked up and instead of the Iraqi officer, he saw an image of Jesus reaching out to him. He saw the wounds in His hands and understood the apparition before him. He heard the words in his head and prayed them out loud, interrupting the song.

"My Lord and My God!"

Jesus was reaching out for him, offering His hand, smiling gently.

John could only say to Him, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. Only say the word and I shall be healed..."

Behind him, seeing the same vision the other captured soldiers continued to sing, "Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison..."

One soldier called out very clearly, "Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do..."

In the midst of the war, each man knew peace. And in the midst of life came death.

In the midst of death they were reborn through Christ.

John and his "brothers" never heard the shots and never felt rounds that stole their lives. And the Iraqi soldiers never understood the glow; the mystical penumbra surrounding them as they were born into eternity.

*************************************************

The Ames family learned the next day that John was MIA. They notified the church and activated the family prayer chain. But all knew, somehow, that John was gone. They had felt his sacrifice in that moment in time, during the eternal moment of  the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

They learned a month later that John was Killed in Action. The military didn't tell her the details: they didn't know most of them.  The Chaplin who met with them told her how John was a sort of spiritual leader among his peers, not afraid to live and defend just his country, but also his faith in Jesus Christ. He wished he could tell her, right then, the story they'd learned from a captured Iraqi soldier.

Hassan had been on the firing line and spoke of the POW's singing in Greek when faced with death. He spoke of the glow that seemed to emanate from them in that dark night. It seemed he was the one who held the gun to John's head.

He was not the only Iraqi POW taken from that group to convert. The deaths of the American soldiers had somehow caused the religious conversion of the enemy; especially those on the firing squad.

In effect, the American soldiers had sacrificed themselves for the eternal souls of men who wanted them dead. God called; they answered.

And in the midst of the war, death was not the only way to bring peace.

Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!

What If? Arbor Vitae....Redemptionis

Some time ago I wrote a post about the fact that fiction safely asks the question, "What if?"

It asks us to suspend belief, to enter a different dimension and accept the parameters of the fictional life being given. This crosses all the genres; historical, future, science fiction, mystery, and the obvious fantasy. Even anecdotal accounts have a certain amount of "literary license" or "poetic license" in the telling of tales.

There is beauty in this, though, for often these fictional worlds force us to consider things that transcend us. Not all of those things are good; not all have at their heart Truth or Beauty or Goodness. Not all of them INTEND to have those things at their source, not because they want to challenge us, but only to present something totally oppositional to what we live, which, in the end, forces us to realize those things that ARE true and good and beautiful.

Of course, there is fictional writing out there worth even less than the "Piss Madonna" or whatever that waste of urine is called. Oh, and not just the "artist" but his blasphemous work, too.

But I digress.

This evening I had a conversation with a friend and we discussed a few things that have come to mind during the last few years of my theological studies and some recent talks I have given.

The conversation made me muse a bit more, realizing that questions are important and it's possible to ask them in a way that doesn't offend Truth, but perhaps maybe reveals it more clearly. I don't know. All I know is that I am pondering some theological questions, hope to do so faithfully and no matter where I tread, I hope to remain a loyal daughter of the Church.

Of what, you ask, do I muse tonight?

It goes back to Genesis and Original Sin.

Fascinating stuff, of course. We know what happened but I'm going to recap anyhow:

Eve was hanging out in the Garden one day, minding her own business when the Serpent slithered up the Tree of Life under whose branches Eve was innocently contemplating God's Glory.

The Serpent, a real snake of action, never known to be appreciative of contemplation himself, rudely interrupted her reverie and asked her randomly,

"Did God say you shouldn't eat of ANY tree in the garden?"

His deception was simple and subtle and he licked his lips while he waited for Eve to process what he'd asked. But she was actually more astute than he'd realized.

Eve, rising from her prayerful contemplation, corrected the Serpent, and said, "That's not what God said and you know it. He said we can eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but if we eat from a particular tree in the center, we can't touch it lest we die. THAT tree, not "any" tree. Be proper in your use of language; language can be really misleading. You should know better."

The serpent, realizing that God had gifted humanity with a real intellect and not just tree sap for brains, saw that he had to be even more sublime in his tactics. But he also saw an opening.

Rather than engage in the semantics of the argument, he started a new one, to see if he could keep Eve guessing. This was fun!

"WHAT?!" The Serpent exclaimed. "He said WHAT?!"

He noted with satisfaction Eve's expression, alarmed both at the blasphemy (for which she didn't have a word) and the seeming intelligence of the Serpent.

Eve felt a shadow creep into her intellect and will. She deliberated and thought maybe she should listen to the Serpent for a moment, even though every fibre of her being told her she should run away screaming.

The Serpent, seeing in her eyes the doubt creeping in, continued in his most enticing of voices, speaking in a conciliatory manner so as not to offend her sensibilities, "You will not die. God knows that when you eat of this fruit your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."

He waited, licking his lips, resting on a branch in a bit of sunlight that had made its way through the leaves. He moved a bit so that the light wouldn't fall directly on him, for he hated when his scales reflected the sunlight. He found a satisfying spot in the crotch of the tree and rested there, burrowing deeply in satisfaction, sighing in preparation for a nice nap after his present work was done.

Eve pondered the Serpent's subtle words. "Eyes opened?"

Did that mean her eyes weren't opened? She reached up and wiped her eyes for a moment, looking around her at the beauty of creation, the sun, the dappled spots on the ground, and the animals crowded around her feet. They all seemed oblivious to this conversation, but only went about gnawing on leaves or resting in the shade cast by the Hosta plants under the Tree of Life. Eve wiped her eyes again, wondering if perhaps it was possible there was something she WASN'T seeing? Could the Father have held something back from them? The Serpent seemed to think so. Why would he use that phrase if she already knew everything she was supposed to know? Was she supposed to know MORE?

And what of this "good and evil"?

What did that mean?

Eve looked around her, and saw that everything was good. She had intimate union with God, she was physically comfortable all the time, she had enough to eat, just the right amount, and life was perfect. Most importantly, she reveled in the love of God and perfect union with Him while enjoying His Creation.

What was "evil"?

This made her curious. What would the deprivation of good be like? Was there another side to things? Wouldn't it be interesting to see what it was like where God was not present?

The Serpent rested, watching Eve's deliberation, watching her eyes taking in everything around her and finally alighting on the Tree of Life.

Her eyes, focusing on the Arbor Vitae lit up in a different way. She saw that the Tree was good, too, and the fruit...quite inviting. It was colorful and emitted a tantalizing fragrance, perhaps even more so because it was forbidden.

She'd noticed it before but in purity of intention considered it nothing more than an inedible flower in a different form. But now, wondering if God perhaps hadn't told them EVERYTHING she felt her mouth watering and reached out to the tree, almost against her will...but not quite.

Once it was in her hand, she hesitated no longer and quickly brought it to her mouth. The taste was sweeter than anything she'd ever experienced or imagined, and this solidifed the doubt introduced to her by the Serpent. Yet she could not understand the sudden bitterness that caused her to spit out the seeds, gagging but unable to eject the pulp she'd ingested so willingly.

The sense of nausea and bitterness faded quickly, and overcome again by the inviting fragrance and salivating taste buds, Eve bit again into the flesh of the fruit, then offered it to Adam, who finally appeared out of the dappled shadows of the garden.

He did not hesitate to eat of the fruit offered to him from his beloved spouse, although she offered him no explanation. It was enough to him that the fruit was in her hand. The fragrance of it called to him and even if he'd been able to resist the sensation, her trusted hand, he thought, would never lead him astray. In his love of Eve, he ignored the echo of the voice of God speaking deep within him cautioning him against eating of the Tree of Life. Eve...her hand...her fruit...was Life ITSELF!

He bit deeply of the fruit, wallowing in it, reveling in it, not even noticing the Serpent gazing from the crotch of the Tree, his forked tongue betraying his excitement.

Then Adam and Eve locked eyes and were ashamed, for they realized neither were covered, and they stood immodestly. They both dove to either side of the Tree and then, carefully made their way to the foliage on either side, both pulling Hosta leaves and fig leaves as they went, trying to cover their shame.

Neither understood the sudden desire they had for the other, a desire that focused not on their ends, but on their parts; not what the other would attain in sanctity, but what they could experience physically in that moment.

Then God walked through the Garden as was His custom and called out to Adam and Eve who were suspiciously absent from their typical joyful greetings.

"Where are you?"

God knew where they hid, but knew they had a choice: to accept or reject His loving question. He knew their shame and was saddened, but instead of condemning, He asked them first to come to Him in love and humility.

They did not come. In their shame, they continued to hide, and gather more leaves to cover themselves.

Adam, the first to speak, blamed Eve, and in so doing accused God, blaming HIM for putting "that woman" with him.

Eve, incensed, spoke up from the next thicket, claiming that it was all the fault of the Serpent. But she did not come out from hiding, for she was busy weaving clothing from the foliage that surrounded her.

We know the rest...we're living it every day. We know that Christ died because of this very event and the effects that followed.

But WHAT IF....

What if, when God walked through the Garden, Adam and Eve had come to Him as He called?

What if Adam had gone to God on his knees with the remainder of the fruit of the Tree of Life? What if he had taken personal responsibility for his actions, and instead of blaming Eve, had admitted that he firstly had neglected to protect her and secondly, had directly disobeyed God both out of his own will and out of his disordered love for Eve over God?

What if Eve had knelt in humility before God and admitted she engaged the Serpent instead of walking away, instead of calling God, and, worst of all...for doubting Him in favor of the word of a creature she could crush under her own heel if she but tried?

What would our theology be like, what would our world be like if Adam and Eve had, in effect, gone to Confession?

Yes, their sin would be erased...to a degree. But original sin, in some sense, would remain. Temporal punishment would still be a reality, for the wound would still be present. The propensity to sin would still have been introduced.

It would make sense for them to be ejected from the Garden, and for the same reason we recognize today; if they continued to have access to the Tree of Life, having already tasted its sweetness they would not be able to withstand it without eating of it, and, of course, if they continued to eat of it they would not be able to be healed of their disobedience and doubt. Ejecting them from the Garden was an act of Mercy which pointed, from the beginning, to the coming Redemption.

But, in the case of Adam and Eve's repentance, would the effects of original sin be lessened? Would the world be more like the Garden but without the Tree of Life? Would there still be pain in childbirth? Would food be brought forth through thorn-infested land or would it grow more easily with minimal efforts to harvest it? Would the preternatural gifts of the original pair be part of humanity now? And would death have entered the world?

I have all these questions, and more.

As my friend pointed out this evening, this is what happens when one gets a little theology. We ask the deeper questions, the "what-if" questions. Not seeking to change reality, but rather, hoping to better understand the reality that we live every single day.

My own pondering will continue, and as I understand it, this is of the type that has kept theologians awake for centuries. "What if?"

It's the "what if" that brings us into contact with God and forces us to pursue Truth. True questions don't lead us OUT of the Church, but INTO it.

On a personal note...

I look at the story of Genesis, and realize I'm a part of it. I live it every day. I give in to the Serpent's suggestions, I enter into dialogue, I deliberate and I eat of what is forbidden. And knowing my influence, I offer it to others, those who should know better.

We all live Genesis every day.

I am reminded of the Exultet sung at the Easter Vigil:

"O Felix Culpa!" O Happy Fault! O Happy Sin of Adam that has won us so great a Redemption!

Oh, yes, I've experienced the greatness of God's mercy. I fell hard, and I fell long but when I came back, God's mercy was far greater than my sin, for the Redemption is ALWAYS more powerful than the Fall.

I guess "what if" doesn't matter. When I look at the story of our Redemption, I do not see the the Fall, even though I live it. Rather, I am drawn into the Wounds of the Savior who reaches for me from the Cross, which has taken the place of the Tree of Life, for Jesus is life itself and feeds us directly from His own Body and Blood, while the Serpent lays crushed dead beneath the weight of the Cross and the heel of the Mother of God who kneels with all her children, pointing to her Son, pointing to Love Incarnate.

The Cross, the Crucifixion...there is the Tree of Life, the Arbor Vitae, the Redemptionis Sacramentum. There is Life Itself, raised up, drawing us to Him, just as He promised.

God always keeps His promises.

The Darkness of the Moon

September 10, 2009: Recently in our area, a cop was shot responding to a Domestic Violence call. A female officer responding with him witnessed his murder in the very short struggle, was fired upon, and in trading rounds, she took the life of the man who shot her friend and fellow officer before her very eyes.

Tomorrow we recognize the attacks of September 11, 2001. There were several police officers who also lost their lives. We honor them.

But have we ever considered what they've been through? Those who have the rare experience of taking another's life remain in their jobs, serving and protecting the public, carrying scars that can't be seen and most will never recognize. This story was published on my blog one year ago tonight, and I republish this story now, I don't know for how long, but here it is:

******

One of the things I like about fiction is that, through this medium, one has the ability to explore the question "What if?". It allows us to use our imaginations to explore real and unreal possibilities in a way that is, if done properly, "safe". I'm not speaking of immoral endeavors into erotica or even horror writing, but rather, exploring the human condition against many possible backdrops. So it was that when I entered college in 1992 with the intention of becoming a Police Officer in four years, I asked myself the ultimate question: what would happen if I had to make the judgment call and pull the trigger? How might that be set up?

Now, having been in law enforcement, having held a loaded weapon in my hand, having pointed it at several people in the course of even a very short career, I can say that what follows here is perhaps written in such a way so as to be perhaps naive with regard to SOP's (Standard Operating Procedures), yet I'm still posting it here in a form true to the use of my imagination at the time of its writing. I've often looked at it, thinking of editing, yet something stops me. Something about the woodenness of the narrative, the stilted sentences, abrupt transitions and obvious symbolism rings a little too true. And I fear that in much of that which I witnessed not even in that job, but throughout my life, has made this somewhat of a prophecy. So it is. I've posted old poetry here on this blog, and some semi-fiction, but this is the first time I've published here one of my actually fictional short stories. It begins with a dose of the questions coming from my real life...and just goes downhill from there. I was writing about the worst-case scenario, so be warned. (Be further advised that I did not write this story from a position of faith, for I don't think I had much at the time.)

And just to be certain that all readers understand that this is not my lived experience:

DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING IS FICTION WRITTEN IN 1992. IT BEARS NO RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS OR EVENTS. ANY RESEMBLANCE MUST BE HELD AS COINCIDENTAL.



THE DARKNESS OF THE MOON

I became a Police Officer because I had a genuine desire to help people. I wanted to keep criminals off the street and protect the people I loved and cared about. Because of my empathy and love of people, my friends, family, and even fellow officers looked skeptical when they asked if I'd ever be able to shoot another human being. I always replied in the affirmative, but inside, I really wondered.

I wondered how I'd handle it if I did have to kill someone while on the job? I honestly wondered how I'd be able to deal with the remorse, the knowledge that I'd taken the life of another? I questioned how I'd b able to live with myself.

One of the first things I observed when came on the Job was the very reality that Cops walk in darkness. Sometimes they are guided by the light of the moon, and some have the additional glow from the stars of their ideals: their belief in justice and hope for the future. I was one of those, completely opposite from the veterans who walked in the shadows, relying only on their flashlights and instincts to navigate the darkness of the streets.

No one really walked in the sun. Light can never reach through the obscure gloom of the underworld of humanity.

In my work, on a daily basis, I saw people betrayed by themselves; conquered by their heritage, mistakes, choices, and utter hopelessness. I saw junkies lying in the street, blood puddled around their corpses, their needles still sticking out of lifeless arms, eyes blank and staring. I knew them not by who they were, but by what they were in the pit we refer to as "life". I watched them slowly descending the ladder into a Hell of their own creation, waiting for them to reach the missing rung, to go pitching headlong into that chasm which swallowed so many others. I also saw the violence and hatred of the streets, the hard-core criminals who knew not what life stood for, but rather, who saw it only as something to be tossed away, like an old used-up wad of toilet paper. I saw the fatal core of human nature.

I rarely had the opportunity to really help anyone.

And one by one, as I became accustomed to this path, the stars in the night sky faded, much like the lives of those I once had hopes of saving.

******

When my shift was over each night, I left my job on the street to go home to my family in a nice cozy house. I tucked my children into bed and read them fairy tales with happy endings to give them pleasant dreams. Then I went to work the next day, where fairy tales were bullshit, happy endings couldn't even be fabricated, and pleasant dreams didn't exist.


****

It was a routine traffic stop and we ran a registration check on the suspicious vehicle. Dispatch came back and informed us that the vehicle was stolen and the driver had a Federal warrant. She was sending backup.

We set up for a Felony stop, and Paul, my partner, grabbed the shotgun as I stood in between the squad and open door, crouching. Turning on the PA system, I ordered the driver and passenger to put their hands in the air. Suddenly they both leaped out of the vehicle and opened fire. I dropped to the ground as the rounds punched through the metal just over my head.

I heard Paul cry out, and shocked, watched him grab his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain.

The shooters drove away and I realized that the volley of ammo was over. Paul jumped into the squad, yelling at me to follow.

Without a word, I got behind the wheel and followed, screaming after the perps. Paul gave our location, block by block, the 12-gauge still leaning against his uninjured shoulder. I knew he needed medical assistance ASAP, but mentally, he also needed to go after the guys who shot him.

I threw caution to the wind. In that moment, I really became a Cop. Still new on the force, it was my first chase, my first Critical Incident. And the blood rushed through my veins, my heart pounded, and training took over my very will. I put the pedal to the metal and screeched after the criminals, vowing that justice would be done.

They took a corner too fast and sideswiped a couple of parked cars. They ran red lights and finally completely lost control and crashed into an old warehouse. Both immediately leapt from the vehicle as I came to a stop.

Leaving Paul with the squad and foolishly not bothering to wait for backup, I went after one of the suspects. I drew my weapon while at a dead run. It wasn't long before he came to a dead end. No entrance, all the doors were locked metal fire exits. The windows were too high to reach.
And there was no cover.

My gun raised, finger on the trigger, I ordered the suspect to drop his weapon.

"DROP THE GUN! DROP THE GUN NOW! DROP THE GUN!"

The radio screeched in my ear, asking my location. I didn't take my eyes or my gun off the suspect. I couldn't respond to one or the other. Time was suspended. Sound was suspended. The only sound I heard was the beat of blood in my ears. I could feel the rapid rise and fall of my chest, and I watched as a bead of sweat slid down the suspect's cheek.

He raised his gun. I couldn't wait any more. Judgment Day.

I coolly looked down the barrel of his gun and still had time to meet his eyes. I saw only madness, a blankness that pervaded his very being. His only goal was to kill me, in that moment.
I had no choice. I fired three times in cold blood, and in my state of limbo, saw the shots punch through his chest, robbing him of his life.

Backup arrived, weapons drawn. I couldn't hear anything other than a ringing sound. I approached the body, not even recognizing it as human. He was only another dead felon gunned down in the shadows of the street. There was only one difference: I was the killer.

I waited for the remorse, the guilt. I waited for the lightening-strike of self-condemnation. But the voice of my conscience remained silent, the heart of compassion frozen in the stillness of death in my very soul.

I turned away from the scene, returning to the squad in a fog. I glanced upward into the nighttime sky, realizing that the moon under which I'd been walking was only the reflection of an ideal. And with that realization, the moon faded into the shadows among which I lived. With the absence of light, my eyes opened wide and I saw how blind I'd been to reality.

Walking in that pitch blackness of that "stormy" night, I placed my gun in my holster. Looking blindly into the shadows, instead I reached back to take out my flashlight so that I could see.

*

My Fiction Blog

A long time ago, I started a second blog, a story I actually wrote when I was 12, and have re-written many times since.

I started it as a way to force myself to continue the story this time, perhaps finally to completion. I have many of the chapters written, many of the characters defined...but as any writer knows, all that is subject to change.

Today I posted chapter 2, 3, and 4; some of you may have already visited the prologue and chapter one, and your comments were favorable. I have now added another few chapters and hope to write more tonight and tomorrow.

I can't promise that this story will continue to anyone's satisfaction, but since I don't have a job, at least I can give myself to this work I began more years ago than I care to count!

The title is a working title only, and will actually change when the story further matures.

So to those of you who enjoy fiction...welcome to the great Catholic novel!

I may start yet another blog with some of my other works of fiction. We'll see.