My father had an uncle who had a small patch of land surrounded by high walls on top of the hill in Kalkara. He called it the garden. In winter my father used to take me for walks in the country, mostly in the afternoons, and if we passed by the garden, and my father's uncle was there, he would usher us inside the walls, proudly showing my father the crops in the neat dark soil. If they were ready he would give us some vegetables to take home to my mother.
There was a room in the garden where my father's uncle had a table and two chairs, and where he kept his tools. They would sit in that room together talking about this and that, while I stayed out in the silence of the garden among the silent crops.
Not far from that corner, at the top of the hill, stood a Franciscan convent, with the silent empty church which we also visited. No one seemed to be ever there in those hours, my father would kneel for a few minutes, his eyes on the tabernacle by which burned a single candle in the sanctuary. Then we would walk out as quietly as we entered. One day on the road to the church we passed a young friar, wearing a beard and sandals, and matching his habit he carried a bag on his shoulder. I remember clearly those sandals in the winter. As we passed him he seemed to me he was praying, for there was a serene look on his face, and he walked with his eyes looking down to the graveled road, his sandals crunching as he came toward us. As he passed us he raised his head and nodded to my father who quietly did the same. I did not realize it then, but years later it occurred to me that he might have been praying for us at that moment.
Just outside the church there was a little grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes, barred with an iron gate, and some candles always burning, and some coins that people would have thrown on the tiled floor. Our Lady holding a rosary in her hands, and little Bernardette kneeling in silent prayer.
Then we would take the narrow road leading to the sea. On one side there was the high wall of the naval cemetery, whenever I looked through the bars of the iron gate I never saw anyone visiting the tombstones there, but it was always silent and sort of serene , with the marked graves arranged in neat rows and resting peacefully in the silence of the winter afternoon.
The country roads were often empty and quiet, even the lone country dog who stared at us with sad eyes never seemed to bark.
Finally we would reach the ever changing sea. Wind or calm there would be a ship or two out there on the horizon, silently gliding over that vast expanse.
There are many memories buried in my mind, of us two walking in the winter wind along the sea. Precious silent moments, for my father was always reserved by nature and hardly ever spoke to me as we walked. But he seemed to revel in the pensive quietude of those occasions.
And before long, we would be back in the more populated areas, heading towards home.
These memories of days long gone, now serve to strengthen my conviction that even then, God was manifesting His presence to me. a Divine Friend, happy to be in our company, His presence so strong and yet so discreet. He was there hounding me in my winter walks with my father.
In Later years, as I went through turbulent periods in my life, those childhood experiences lay repressed beneath the storms of life, only to be retrieved with joy in God's good time.
No comments:
Post a Comment