Your creation - a piece of you. The text is the author.

It wasn’t until several months later that the priest’s nephew and grandniece came to visit him at home.

“I still don’t understand what you were doing up there all by yourself, Uncle. At your age, you should have known.” Unsurprisingly, the comatose man did not respond. The nurse on the other side of the room sniffled, but said nothing.

His daughter delicately grasped his hand. “Daddy, Charles from Sunday school says grandpa’s gonna die.”

He looked down to meet his daughter’s watery eyes and crouched beside her. “Sweetie, Charles doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t listen to a word out of that spoiled rotten boy’s mouth.” He stood and his eyes met those of his good friend the Architect, who had just entered the room. “Stay here with Grandpa.” He patted his daughter’s head and ushered his friend outside.

Before he could open his mouth, the Architect interrupted. “I already know, the nurse told me.” There was an uncomfortable silence.

Henri Regnault's Madame Mazois on her Deathbed

Sniffles and sad sighs.

The Shepherd’s padded pacing and occasional whines.

Wind howling against the sides of the Priest’s hollow house.

All around them was the music of the world mourning immanent loss.

“So he built that cross on the peak?” The Architect gestured out the window at the lofty cross.

“And then he fell.” Silence again. “Thank God the dog was with him.”

“I wonder if the dog thinks about it.”

“Don’t be daft.”

The Architect ignored him. “You know, his spirit is up there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Haven’t you heard of Walter Benjamin?”

The Priest’s nephew shook his head.

“This may be his last day, but he’s left a piece of himself, his aura, in that cross. That cross can never be exactly reproduced, because it was his. It is what’s left of him.”

“Amen.”

Interrupted Thoughts, Unsolicited Advice, Divine Signs - or is it all just senile mumbo jumbo?

The priest was reading as he walked, absorbed in the strange book his nephew had lent him, known as Nadja, when he heard a sickening crunch beneath his foot. After a quick inspection, he concluded he had stepped on the old dried skull of a small, omnivorous animal. His wrinkled face formed a frown, both from pity for the animal and the sudden painful reminder of his own old age. He motioned a quick cross in front of his chest and stepped carefully over the rest of the remains, deciding he’d better watch where he was stepping from then on.

As he continued his short, silent voyage home, the priest’s mind kept wandering back to the brittle bones. It meant death, which of course didn’t scare the priest. It meant loss, which he believed was only temporary. It meant nature, both the bane of - and escape from - mankind.

He stopped and breathed in the fresh air as a breeze tickled his wild whiskers.

“Grandpa, I want to climb to the top of that mountain!” The priest’s grandniece was excitedly jumping up and down, pointing at the tallest mountain in the neighboring range that protected their town from nasty weather.

The old man’s thoughts were interrupted, as they so often were these days, by his loyal Shepherd’s excited bark, heavy paws pounding on the ground as he ran to greet his owner. The clergyman opened his blue eyes, scanning the horizon for his beloved dog. Shading his aqua orbs from the sun, he caught a glimpse of the very mountain his grandniece had wanted to climb.

Was I meant to stop where I did, look where I did, think what I did? Is this a sign?

She always was a smart girl.

Dreams are the Blueprints of Freedom

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it to church Sunday.”

The priest, surprised, glanced at his nephew. “You won’t?”

The young man shook his head. “No. I have construction to do here at home.”

His uncle looked around the room in confusion. “What kind of construction?”

The man’s smile grew and his eyes sparkled. “My daughter started feeding the deer that live behind our farm. She says our neighbor’s dogs run wild and kill the deer, and she wants me to build a fence between our properties to protect them.”

The priest chuckled at his grandniece, always the philanthropist. “Did you tell her deer need to roam free?”

The man nodded, “But they will be free, just in a safer home. Sometimes you have to leave home to be free.”

The old man smiled wisely. “While you’re at it, you can build me a church for my people to be free.”

“You’ve nothing more than a dream, right now. Construction requires plans, blueprints.”

“I have no experience creating blueprints.” The elder sighed and looked up at the sky, hopeless.

“I have a book I want to lend you. Brand new, I bet you’ve never even heard of it.” The priest looked, but did not reply, so the younger man continued without request. “It’s called Nadja.” The young man scurried over to a table to pick up a book. With a laugh he handed the text to his uncle “I hope your French isn’t too rusty.”

The priest fingered the pages of the book, flipping through, and stopped to observe a strange picture. “What is this?”

“The woman in this book draws what she dreams. Perhaps she can inspire you to draw your dreams. I’ll need to see them for myself if I’m to help you.”

The priest and his nephew sat in content silence.

Sometimes you have to leave home to be free.

What makes a word?

The priest looked at the council with such conviction they avoided his burning eyes. “I’m sorry Father, we cannot change the city’s height ordinance for you to build a new church. What is wrong with the building you are using now?”

The old man clenched and unclenched his fists, a habit when he was deep in thought. “I had a dream in which we worshiped in a church so close to God, our citizens could see him. They had no fear, no doubts, and the town had no sins.”

The tallest councilman shook his head. “It was just a dream, Father. What we have is a government. It is real and concrete, and our laws are what protect it.”

“My dreams mean as much as your laws. Laws are simply words strung together! They mean nothing more than the words in any given graffiti.”

The priest’s friend, the architect, placed a calming hand on the old man’s shoulder, in a silent warning to bite his tongue. The senior turned and when they made eye contact, the young man smiled softly and stepped forward.

“Councilmen, before I became an architect, I studied to be a politician. I learned that laws are concrete, but people, society - even words are not. Laws, like language, should evolve.” He paused, to make sure the small group of men was listening. “I once had a professor who used to tell us ‘Words carry the authority to dictate peaceand war, laughter and tears, love and hate.’ But, he would continue, ‘Words are models. We are sculptors.’ Society should not allow the laws to limit us; rather we must amend the laws to evolve alongside us, our culture, and our very words themselves.”

The councilmen’s’ silence spoke volumes.

Assignment 1

“I want you to build for me the greatest church in Europe!”

The architect nervously glanced up from his coffee cup to find the eccentric priest intently staring at him. “Father, I can only dream of living in the shadows of the men who created the Papal Basilica of Saint Peter, Saint Basil’s Cathedral, Notre Dame,-”

The young man was cut off. “You don’t understand, boy. I have had dreams. Dreams of a church so close to God, I could see his Kingdom when the sky was clear.”

“You know the city has limits on the heights on new buildings.”

“What man allows another to limit his closeness to his god?”

There was no reply. The priest looked beyond the architect, beyond the city limits, lost in his thoughts. The side of his mouth twitched into a small smile and his blue eyes clouded over for a moment.

By the time the priest shook himself from his dream-like state, his young friend was digging through his wallet to grab change for his drink. He gave the priest an apologetic smile. “Drink’s on me, Father.”

The old man nodded. “Thank you, son. I am sorry you can’t help me.”

The younger man shrugged and stood. He excused himself from the table and told the priest he would see him on Sunday.

“Hmm.” The elder man leaned back in his chair, eyes cast up the mountains that shaded his small, secular town. I know what I must do, and I know just how my work should look.