"The Little Boy"

There once was a small child who desperately wanted to see a miracle. He went to Mass every Sunday with his dad and his mother and his brothers, and he heard the stories of Jesus and he felt amazed. He was sure that such miracles still happened, and he wanted to see one and know what it felt like to walk the world with Jesus.

So, being the scion of a devout Catholic family, he did what any Catholic does, and prayed. He prayed every night before bed for God to show him a miracle. He tried to be humble, the way his mother said you should be, so he never asked God for anything specific. He just asked resolutely for a miracle, any miracle, so that he could see.

But time passed, and he didn't see any miracles. Let down a little, his faith shook like a young tree in a hurricane. He wavered in his beliefs, and for such a young and usually boisterous lad, seemed even to his parents to be in a deep melancholy. But then he learned in CCD about how Saints had to have miracles attributed to them to be Saints, and he took heart, and he knew in the depths of his soul that miracles still had to occur, otherwise we couldn't have Saints! So he started praying again, adding to this prayers to various Saints that they had talked about in CCD class, like St. Peter and St. Paul. And again, time passed, but the boy persevered in his prayers for longer this time, holding onto hope as long as he could.

But still, no miracles came, and eventually his hope deflated, and it seemed to his family that a little light, one that had burned in his eyes for months and months, flickered and faded. And just when it was on the point of guttering out, he found himself at Mass again with his family, listening to the priest read one of the stories he enjoyed so much. And it was the story about how someone with the faith of a mustard seed could move the greatest mountain into the sea. But if that faith should waiver, the mountain would never move.

The boy, at this point, was a little bit tired of praying incessantly for something that would never come. But he thought, maybe this was the trial of faith, to ask for something even after you've given up hope of receiving it, and even without any expectation of reward or favor. So he prayed again, all that long week, and again the next week, and again the next, even as the light of hope that had sustained him faded away. And he knew that it was hopeless, but he prayed anyway, for faith to him became something that had to overcome despair, and triumph in the face of that loss.

But still, nothing. No miracles. The boy's despondency became so notable, that his mother came to him, and asked what was the matter. And the boy confided in her the whole sad story, and while he was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the depths of his own spiritual crisis, his mother, good Catholic woman that she was, understood all too well. And she reminded him in her own gentle and loving fashion that the purpose of prayer is not for our own will to be done, but for God's will to be done.

The boy seemed to take heart at this, and his mother left him to think, but in his heart of hearts, he didn't understand. Why tell his followers that their faith would be rewarded, that their requests granted, if Jesus's own will was the only important will? He thought about it day and night, and kept praying. In keeping with his mother's advice, he amended his prayers with the request, "And not my will, but yours, be done." But still nothing, and his despondency deepened.

And he was no longer eager to go to Mass, and he was no longer happy to speak with God, and he went to pray almost kicking and screaming, and sat in sullen and obdurate silence through the ever longer seeming Mass. He scorned the priests rituals, scoffed at the time it took out of his day, and refused to listen to the stories he had once held so dear. Until finally one day, he found himself so bored that he began to listen again, just to have something to do. And this time the story was of the man called Thomas, the doubter, and how he had demanded proof of Christ's resurrection. And Christ admonished him for having to see to believe.

The boy listened, and what is more, the boy heard, and by the time they reached home, the boy was fit to burst with sorrow. He realized himself to be just like Thomas, and knew he would never be worthy of God. His previous anger and melancholy was nothing compared to the darkness that settled upon him now, like a mantle obscuring all light and love.

He stopped praying.

And finally, on the next Sunday morning, his father took him alone to Mass, as his brothers and mother were out of town. And the boy finally screwed up the courage to ask his father, "Dad, have you ever seen a miracle?" And before he could answer, the entire story of his journey poured out of him, and the boy felt a huge weight lift as the catharsis of confession took place. And his father remained silent, listening carefully to every word, and taking them in until the boy had nothing left to say. The silence was unnerving, and the boy, fidgeting as boys do, finally had to repeat himself, "Well, have you ever seen one?!"

His father spoke slowly, in the reassuring way fathers have, the way that ensures their sons' idolization well into their teenage years, and said that, yes, in fact, he had. He had seen miracles. And, suddenly excited, the boy asked all the relevant questions, in typical boyish exuberance. When?! Where?! What happened?! Was it for you?! Did you pray for it?!

Again came the slow drawl of fatherly wisdom, like honey from the comb. Well, son, you see, I see them all the time, everywhere. There is a miracle that happens every day, all across the world, and it absolutely happens for me, and for you too. And I certainly do pray for it, I pray as hard and long as you have and longer. And you have too.

The boy didn't understand, and he asked his father to explain, and his father only said, "You'll see, son, you'll see."

And so they arrived at Mass, to the church of his youth, and they sat and listened to the readings, and the sermon, and they sat and they stood and sat again and stood again and finally they knelt. And the priest spoke out some words, and the boy didn't hear them, because as he spoke he lifted the little piece of bread on high, and it was not bread, but light, purest light, radiating from the priest's hands, as if the very sun sat between them. And then the priest lowered his hands, spoke some more, and still the boy could not hear the words for the sudden music to fill his ears, as all the choirs of angels sang and the chalice was lifted, and the symphonic, honeyed joy of God poured out into it and from it, washing through the Church in highlights of silver and gold.

The boy wept. He cried and cried and cried, he cried for the rest of Mass, he cried on the drive home, and he cries still. He's crying now. For God showed him a miracle, and had he only been watching, he would have seen it before, the sublime beauty of the greatest of all miracles, that brilliant gift of God. And he knew in that moment that so few others saw, and the only thing he could do was weep for the vision they couldn't share.

And now the boy who wouldn't stop praying, prays for you.