clergy

There was once a man I knew who entered the clergy in the late 1800s. He was young man, 21 perhaps when he decided to take into account the testament rather than his father's horseshoe company as head blacksmith. He decided to take his fathers' favorite horse and ride to the town to speak with the village church. This man knew all too well what his intentions were yet he could never discover his true passion. Until he met Mathilda. She was the love of his life, well the remaining months that he could see and be with her until his semester was over and he'd return home. He didn't know quite how to tell her but he knew he didn't have much time, so he wrote her a note instead and placed it on her pillow so when she got home from the church, she would read what his heart was pounding in his chest to explain. His nose began to bleed in spurts and phlegm would be hiding in the back of his throat, ready to build up and spit into the spittoon near his bed. Mathilda would be at his side night and day, cooking, cleaning, loving with a heart of unimaginable fortitude. There was a gain to this advantage, where even the note on her pillow could stop her from loving him. They visited exotic locations and the man began to walk with a cane. He was oh so young, but he chose the vile hip style rather than the long run haul. All he could do now was wait. His son would pressure him to play with his life because what was left of it could be gone in a day or a month or years, but he had to make himself happy and get him out of the depression that was swallowing him into the couch. Talking to people, why be afraid, but he was not interested until he figured out a way to make himself happy. His son could see the mountain from the trees, but the man couldn't climb trees anymore. The man left the church in his final days, realizing being is within him and not entity that controls life. The man lived to be 103, the doctors said it was a miracle, but it wasn't. His son's idea saved his life.