Incarnate - Chapter One: Stephen

Chapter One

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Stephen

I do believe that everything we see,
everything that is in front of us
is just the visible part of reality.

We have the invisible part of reality,
like emotions for example, like feelings.

This is our perception of the world,
but God is in a grain of sand and in a flower.

Paul Coelho

Night had darkened Rome. An opened but unpacked suitcase lies at the foot of my bed at the Columbus
Hotel, a quick walk from the Vatican. The dogs in the alley were losing their bark, as the musical aroma of
Miles Davis’ Generique drifts from the Jazz cafe behind the old dark cobblestone path. An open bottle of wine
rest on the night table breathing in the damp, dark air that will mature the nuanced flavor for the cup my dear
brother Edward and I will share at the other end of my journey. The flesh-colored crimson stained cork rolls
off the nightstand.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I reach down to retrieve the fallen cork, while the other hand grips tightly
onto a gold-leafed frame holding a photo that marks the shortened sands of time that were my life’s gift. I
could not taste life’s cup that gave to me what has become my agony. I place the sacred photo-image of a
love reluctantly released, on the scarred wooden nightstand. My eyes penetrated her portrait; my mind
recalled the memory of my beautiful Caterina.

Thoughts drift toward her, not enough cups of coffee shared, but a lifetime of love. My clenched fist
press against my nose and mouth yearning to stop this corkscrew to my heart, as I recline backward on the
bed looking upward. So many sojourners like me have laid in this bed staring up at the stained brown
stuccoed-cracked ceiling hoping the next day to touch transcendence as they take their prayers into
Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Tonight, my plastered dome is empty. God’s hand is not reaching down to me;
I can hear Caterina's memory gently whispering to me, "God is not there."

I need Him to be. Why has he forsaken me?
Arising, I stand up from my agony. I pull out of the suitcase the small glass tube container with the
lavender top, cradling it gently with both hands. This vial holds the source code of life, the code of my
spiritual life. Marked with an X Lanciano. I am looking out the window at the night illuminated Basilica that
beacons God is here. I hold the small glass vessel tightly in my hand putting it to my mouth with a gentle kiss
hoping that maybe God is here. This is my “Great Wanting." The yearning to ease the pain of my lack of faith
because I could not bear to taste the cup before me.
Moving toward the nightstand, I set back down on the bed and slid the opened bottle of wine closer to
me. Taking my last look at the lavender capped tube, I held it in my fingers above the neck of the bottle. I
said a prayer that Edward would take this journey so that my spirit could be redeemed from this cloud of
regret and shame. I released the long thin capsule to gently plunge into the bottle. The wine in the bottle
overflowed as Edward’s gift gently sank to the bottom with the sound of a light clink. The wine was dripping
down the label and seeped onto the floor like tears of blood. Taking the cork, I gently forced the bottle
closed again. Not to be enjoyed until Edward and I commune together. Wine sprayed into my hands dripping
between my fingers. The re-corking of the bottle sprayed droplets of displaced wine onto the nightstand. My
head fell to rest on the pillow, praying, hoping to ease the pain into the deep darkness of my new friend,
sleep. I glanced over at the picture of Caterina. Droplets of wine were dripping down over her face like tears.
Grabbing the framed icon of my love, I tenderly kissed her image and tasted the wine as if I had just kissed
her during a quiet dinner. For a brief time, I could feel and smell her presence. The sweet remembrance of
her brought momentary peace until the wine dried bringing me back to the reality that my weakness caused
me to lose so many grains of sand through my life's hour glass. Anxiety and anticipation of Edward's future
journey rescued me temporarily as night overtook me. My journey home would be my redemption: Edward
would be my redeemer.

***
The dogs started barking before the first rays warmed the stained glass of St Peters. I knew I had to get
an early start so that I could see my dear trusted friend, Father Francesco Paulo Martelli, before catching my
flight home. We had made plans to meet, at Anticco Cafe San Pietro, for an espresso and drop my package
off at the Vatican Post Office. I learned a day earlier that I could not take the precious tube on the plane and
needed a particular license to ship human biological material. I could not risk U.S. Customs discovering and
confiscating my secret redemption. Paulo was the only one I could turn to; he agreed to ship my secret vial in
a wine bottle from the Vatican.
Seated at an outside table at the cafe, Paulo and I would meet after the first Mass. Paulo was running
late, and I was getting antsy about missing my flight. Instantly these massive hands grabbed my shoulder with
a loud shout, “Buon giorno mio foretello.” I nearly spilled the last of my espresso all over myself. After some

conversation, he asked me about Caterina. My look away told him that my emotions were still raw. Before
leaving, he asked, "Are you sure Edward will continue this journey for you?"

"Paulo, Edward is the most honest, and wisest man I know. He will do it not only for my redemption
but his own seeking as well. He has been searching for the God that we know his whole life."

“Then how come he has not found God?” Paulo in a soft, slow cadence direct voice inquired.
After a quick pondering, I shot back, "I don't know." Grabbing my suitcase and bag containing the
bottle and handed it to my friend.
"Asino muto," he laughed out loud with his hand lifting over his head, indicating how was he going to
get a bottle of wine in a bag shipped from the Post Office of the Vatican. He informed me that we would
stop at a shop and get a wooden box to send the bottle.
Several people with concerns stopped by to talk with my friend. Paulo could tell I was getting
aggravated. Finally leaving, he asked, “What are you anxious about Stephen? This is how life happens. You
want the universe to bow down to you?” Paulo challenged me. “Things happen, they always happen, casualità
creativo in scatola della libertà di Dio.” Paulo taught me this long ago. It means creative randomness in God’s box
of freedom. Paulo always thought that anxiousness and impatience were a sign that one was not living his life.
We walked two blocks toward a small gift store outside the Vatican walls where Paulo knew the shop
owner. I grew increasingly agitated that the shop owner could not find a box to transport the gift of all gifts for
Edward and myself. She is causing me to lose minutes and interfering with what needs to be accomplished.
Then slowly she brought from the back a wooden box with an artisan carved wooden top that had Latin
words elaborately etched. Paulo quickly indicated it was okay. Placing the bottle into the box surrounded by
shredded paper for protection; it became apparent that we needed more things to prevent the bottle from
moving around. I reluctantly unzipped my luggage and pulled out my journals and papers and used them as
buffers. Time was ticking. Nothing was more valuable than the safeguarding of my redemption. We sealed
the box and placed it in a cardboard box for shipping and went straight to the Post Office of the Vatican. The
clerk asked what the box contained.
“My whole life,” I replied.
“A gift of a bottle of wine from me, and some papers,” Paulo interjected. The clerk smiled at my dear
trusted friend and automatically stamped the approval on the paperwork.
Leaving the Vatican gate, we walked out onto the cobblestone sidewalk toward the Largo deli Alicorni
where a car was waiting to drive me to the airport, compliments of my friend Paulo, I asked him, “Are you
sure that package will make it to Edward, my whole life is in that box?”
“God finest creation is on this small blue planet with all its random dangers, why you worry? Casualità
creativo in scatola della libertà di Dio!” he shouted at me as we embraced one last time. “Arrivederci il mio
Broter il mio amico,” Paulo said to me as he kissed me goodbye.

Turning and walking briskly toward the car parked at the crossing where the digital sign overhead
warned walkers; only forty-four seconds were safe to travel. I nearly bumped into an old black man who was
feeding the birds casting his seeds in a spray-like pixie dust that caused the flock to flutter in unison up and
down as they caught their morning brunch. His deep dark eyes, shaded under a blue pin-striped tattered bill
of a railroad hat, met mine as if he knew me. He smiled holding a cigarette loosely on the side of his mouth.
He was like a symphony conductor orchestrating the birds to move at will in any direction he desired. He
reached deep into his bag and slung a spray of seeds high into the air causing me to look up, spotting a white
dove-like bird hovering in front of me, hypnotizing me for a brief interval of time. Then it flew straight over
my head disappearing as I turned to see it vanish. Having turned back toward the Vatican gate; a flash of
metal reflected off the high morning sun caught my eye as a bearded man ran toward my friend Paulo
shouting “Allahu Akbar”!

I screamed “No Pauuu…….!”
Before I could finish my warning, I had dashed the few yards, leaping between my unsuspecting friend
and the blade of death approaching his unsuspecting soul. Thrusting forward, through the screams of
horrified witnesses to man’s evil, I propelled by brother Paulo forward as the blade severed my hand below
the knuckles, but missing my comrade. I stumbled face forward to the ground.
Stunned. My cheek lying on cold cobblestones, while my eyes saw people running away in a slow motion
hearing their muffled screams to God. The sign warned thirty-eight blinking seconds. Lifting my head, I gaze
into the eyes of my blood-stained friend Paulo now running toward me reaching with horror filled eyes.
Raising myself to my knees, I feel the first electric shock of pain race through my arm to my feet; as my
severed appendage pushes me into a crawling position. Where is he? Did he run away? Then I hear the
scream again of approaching death, “Allahu Akbar!”
I can hear the swooshing sound as the blade cuts through the air, piercing the muted screams. Then
instantly I am falling and tumbling through the air in slow motion. I can see the revolving blue sky of an
upside-down world, as I'm descending through the air; then mentally bracing myself as I see the hard-
cobblestoned ground approaching fast expecting great pain upon impact. Squinting my eyes tightly; only to
feel a small thud as my head hits the stone paver. Suddenly deadened sounds of scuffling and wrestling
washes over me and I see my attacker pushed to the ground by the Vatican guards. They are driving his neck
into the stones as his face looks with grimace upon me. He is obviously in deep anguishing pain. My thoughts
are with him. I want to tell him I forgive him, but I feel paralyzed. I move my lips, but I cannot hear.
Glancing above at the entangled men the sign ticks off to twenty-nine seconds.
Paulo bloodied face, hands raised to the heavens, is standing over me crying out to God. He drops to his
knees. I want so much for him to embrace me; tell me everything will be alright; that they will be able to
repair my hand. He is caressing someone on the ground rocking back and forth crying to God, “Why . . .
Why!”

Then the arm of the victim flops to the ground with its hand tightly fisted. I can see the ring briefly. My
mind screams in silence! It is the ring Caterina had given me. Then in terror, I realized; he is holding me. The
sign read twenty-one seconds. Just then a piece of plastic is thrown over me casting darkness on my last
seconds on this earth. I am shocked that I have little pain except for the end of the many dreams I still
desired. The smell of blood surrounds me like when you get a bloody nose. I can feel the senses draining
from my mind replaced by a sense of calm and anxious anticipation. I cannot make out any noise now, but I
can still feel the vibrations of chaos from the ground. Everything is becoming silently slow, but memories are
pouring forth over my soul. They are coming to me as if welcoming me. I don't feel that life is draining out. I
feel like life is pouring into me. Some memories are from loved ones who have died; others are greeting me
from those I am leaving behind. These memories of the past are present this moment; as if there is no time.
The last sound I hear is the rapid staccato beeps from the warning sign signaling that the time has passed. It is
now darker than darkness. It is quieter than silence.

I am waiting.
I’m still waiting.
I’m afraid to think a thought, because if I can’t, maybe this is the end.
I am still conscious.
I still am.
I am here . . . somewhere.
Waiting until it comes to me. Finally, my first thought is to Edward. Take the journey, my beloved
brother. Lightness enters my being in consciousness. I am seeing. For the first time, I’m seeing.
Oh, wow! I’m still….
I’m laughing inside for joy.