Brother Pedro
I wrote this piece around fifteen years ago. After a few years, I made contact with Pedro again recently. He is now a priest living and studying in Rome. Twelve years ago I was received into the Catholic Church and it was a beautiful experience. Sadly, since then, I have been a wandering soul, out of communion with the Church. But, recently, the drawing power to return caressed my soul. I am now in communion again, despite my doubts. I choose to experience community and the beautiful metaphor of belief and I no longer concern myself much with the literal interpretations of the Faith.
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I accidentally discovered where he lived. I was driving around in the Elradus Park area near Pretoria looking for a friend’s house. What I did not know was that I was about to discover a friend’s house. I got lost but found him. We often find exciting new places and meet wonderful people when we get lost. I came to a dead-end in the road with a metal gate in front of me.
This was private property. I could not see what lay beyond the gate accept that it was a dirt road leading to… well, somewhere. I was about to turn back when my eye caught a small, rusted sign near the gate. It simply read OFM. In the long-forgotten recesses of my soul a little light flickered. OFM… I remember this.
Years before, I learned about St. Francis of Assisi (1182 –1226), who formed the Order of Friars Minor (OFM) and whose influence and works for mercy spread across the face of Europe and beyond during the Middle Ages. St. Francis — Francesco di Bernardone — the little man of Assisi.
So here I was at the end of the road in a place I did not plan to be with a sign reading OFM in front of me. I did what I had to do. I entered in. I drove on a gravel road past a large wooden crucifix and ended in front of a number of modest buildings. I got out and started walking around but I could not see a soul. Then around a corner came a large middle-aged Irish man with red hair. He was a priest and his name was father Hastings. He invited me in for coffee and we had a chat.
He was a lovely and humble man and I loved his strong Irish accent. I learned that this place was a training school for priests and monks run by the Franciscan order. Father Hastings invited me to attend mass the next day. The gate was opened to me and I entered in.
It was springtime but that Sunday morning was very cold and the grey mist lay thick over Pretoria. I arrived at the OFM buildings but the mist was so thick that I could hardly see anything. I got out of my car and started wandering around. I did not know where to go. I did not have a clue what to expect. And I was very afraid. I grew up mistrusting everything that had whatsoever anything to do with the Catholic Church. I guess that is the way every young Protestant is supposed to be raised.
So here I was about to do what my young Protestant soul never anticipated to do in this life. I was about to enter a Catholic Church and witness a celebration of Mass. At this time I was sure that they would worship Mary and the saints and that the Pope was controlling their minds all the way from Rome. The thick mist of my soul was about to clear.
As I was wandering around and trying to see the ground one step ahead of me I looked up and saw in a distance what looked like a number of brown figures walking in a row and then entering a building. One of the brown figures stood still, and then came toward me. As the amount of mist between us became less and less I realised that this was a Franciscan monk dressed in the brown habit of his order. His face radiated the warmest and most loving smile I had ever seen and he embraced me warmly and said, “I am brother Pedro. Father Hastings asked me to show you around today. But first, let us go to the chapel. Mass is about to be celebrated.”
I have remained in contact with Brother Pedro over the years. He will soon be ordained a priest and then I will call him Father Pedro. Dear Pedro, for me you are the little man of Assisi who brings comfort and warmth and joy to my life. The loving Lord has used you to teach this young and fearful Protestant soul that despite all the bad press, the Catholic Church is God’s people here on earth and my soul longs to be one with you.
I long to kneel with you one day and confess my sin. I long to hear from God’s priest here on earth that I am forgiven. I am in front of the metal gate again. What is beyond is God’s property. The rusted sign reads “the people of God.” I will open the gate and I will enter.
