The Calling 6

Edited by Michael-Leonard.

*****

Everyone has a calling in life; some never hear it, and others get two.

"Simon, son of Jonah... you are Peter, and on this rock I will build My Church." Matt. 16:18

Prologue:

Peter stood on the veranda and watched as she went through her daily ritual, her Tai Chi forms. Her movements were fluid and precise; each was a slow motion version of martial arts techniques used for defensive or offensive purposes. These movements were designed to train the body to respond without conscious thought; for the mind it was an exercise in discipline.

When she was done, her body glistened with sweat. Now came the part that always disturbed him. She walked across the back yard and stood before the large heavily padded bag that hung from the branch of an ancient sycamore tree. Suddenly she attacked the bag with a vengeance. For the next thirty minutes her fury was focused onto that bag. Punches and kicks landed with resounding thumps, launched from all angles, with all the power that her muscular body could generate.

To Peter, the dichotomy was apparent. He never quite understood how she could be so serine and graceful in one moment and be so totally vicious the next; but he understood why. He thought back over the last two weeks, how they had first met and how terrified he had been of the person she was back then. She had traveled a long way on the road to recovery; he was sure the journey was almost over.

Peter was suddenly aware of silence; the thudding and grunting had stopped. Dina was hunched over in front of the bag, her breathing deep and rapid, sweat running down her face, droplets dripping off her nose onto the parched earth. Slowly she stood upright and with her hands on her hips and turned her body until she was facing him. Her smile was as dazzling as the sun that scorched the land. With a wave she acknowledged his presence, picked up her towel, and wiping her face walked slowly towards the house.

Chapter 1

He adored his Mother. She had always been there for him. She had reared him by herself, a single mom, working six days a week as a waitress in two different diners, so that she could put a roof over his head, food in his mouth, and provide for a better than average education. She was a very religious woman, who believed in God, attended Church regularly and insisted that he get a Catholic School education. When he was born, she had named him Peter for a reason. He was going to be her rock; without a man in her life, she would build her life upon him.

Like her, he was short, and slight of build to the point that many thought he was sickly. Standing just over five feet four inches tall, he was always one of the shortest in his class. His hair was dark brown, almost black and his olive complexion suggested that maybe his missing father had been from one of the Mediterranean cultures.

Peter had attended their parish's grammar school, and Seton Hall Prep, and received his undergraduate degree in theology at Seton Hall University. His Mother could not have been more proud of him than the day he announced that he had been accepted for enrollment at Immaculate Conception Seminary School of Theology, with priesthood as his ultimate goal.

He had completed the first two years of study and was well into the third when he began having doubts about becoming a priest. Finally, after several days of deliberation, he made an appointment to meet with his spiritual mentor, Father Kevin.

After the usual pleasantries, Fr. Kevin asked,

"So Peter, what brings you to see me?"

"Father Kevin, this is very hard for me. I don't know how to put this."

"I find that if you just tell me what's on your mind without dwelling on every word, it all comes out."

"Okay. Father, I'm not sure I truly want to be a priest. I've been having these feelings."

"What kind of feelings?"

"Sexual feelings. It's never happened to me before, but now as I walk across campus or sit in the café during lunch, if I see a pretty girl I begin to get aroused. How can I think about becoming a priest, to take a vow of celibacy, if I can't control my sexual urges?"

"I see," said Father. Kevin. "And do you feel that this is somehow abnormal? You're twenty-four years old; and from the little you've told me, I assume, a virgin. It's your body that is betraying you, not your mind. These urges will pass in time; you just have to be strong in your faith. If vows were easy anyone could give them. It takes a strong character to uphold a vow of any type. I suggest that you go back to your room tonight and pray for the strength to overcome these temptations."

Unsatisfied, Peter reluctantly returned to his room and prayed for guidance and strength of character. Over the next several weeks things did not improve. He wanted desperately to talk with his Mother, but this was not something that he could talk to her about, and besides he didn't want to disappoint her.

'Well maybe if I just go home for the weekend and be with Mother, it will make me feel better.'

Friday night, after classes, Peter boarded the bus and headed for home. Two hours later, after a bus transfer and a ten minute walk, he stuck his key into the lock of the front door. He had expected to be alone for a while, since his Mother usually worked Friday nights. When he walked into the living room, he found her sitting in her favorite chair, an afghan over her shoulders, reading her bible.

She didn't look well.

"Peter, what are you doing home? I wasn't expecting to see you until the end of the semester."

"I missed you. Can't a guy come home for the weekend to see his favorite girl?"

She nodded her head slowly and then appeared to grimace in pain.

"Mom, what's wrong you don't look right?"

"Just a touch of the flu or something," she said trying her best to hide her pain.

"Mom, what's wrong, you look like you've lost weight, your eyes look sunken and you're pale as a ghost. Have you been to the doctor?"

"There's nothing that the doctor can do for me."

"Mom, what do you mean; what's wrong?"

"I have cancer. It's a very aggressive type of breast cancer and has spread throughout my body. I'm dying."

"Mom, no; don't say that. What are they doing for you, what's the treatment? When did you find out about it? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Whoa, slow down; I'm an old woman, I can only answer one question at a time."

"You're not old; you're only forty-three. You're too young to die," Peter said, kneeling at his mother's feet, his hands holding tightly onto hers.

"I feel old. I found out about it after you returned to school after Christmas. I went to the clinic because I wasn't feeling well. They took some blood and gave me an antibiotic and told me to get some rest. Three days later, they called me back and asked me to come to the hospital for more tests. They did a CAT scan and a nuclear bone scan or something or other. The next day a doctor came in to see me. He explained to me that I had breast cancer and that it had spread rapidly throughout my body. He said they could do radiation or chemo treatments, which may extend my life for a short while; but in the end I would still die. I asked him what my life would be like during the treatments and he basically told me it would be hell. He said the alternative would be to do nothing and give me drugs for the pain. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. You have enough on your mind, with the seminary and all."

"How long?"

"A month; two at the most," she said grimacing once again.

"Is it time for a pill?"

"Yes, but I try to put them off as long as possible; they make me sleepy."

"Please, Mom; I'll get you a pill. Take it, I don't want to see you in pain," Peter said, getting up and walking to the kitchen counter where she always kept any pills she was taking.

Returning with a glass of water and a pill, he made sure that she took it before helping her to her feet.

"Why don't you get ready for bed, I have a couple of calls to make."

Once he heard the bathroom door close, he picked up the phone and called Fr. Kevin. He explained the situation and told him that it was his intention to stay and take care of her until the end.

"I'll put together the paperwork for a leave of absence and submit it on your behalf."

"Thank you, Father; you've been a good friend."

"You take good care of her, my son. Take as long as you need; we'll be here when you decide to come back."

Peter returned to his mother's bedroom in time to help her get comfortable.

"Don't worry about a thing, Mom; I'm here now and I'll take care of you."

He didn't tell her about leaving the seminary; the weekend was not the time, Monday morning would be soon enough. That night when he went to his room, he asked God to give him the strength to care for her and to ease her suffering and give her peace. That weekend he watched her closely. She ate little and only took her pill for the pain when he made her.

On Monday morning she asked him, "Peter, when do you have to be back for classes?"

"Mom, I'm not going back; I'm staying here with you. I've asked for a leave of absence to take care of you."

"But Peter..."

"No. I'm not going to argue with you. I can resume classes in the fall after you get better."

Even as he said it, they both knew that that day would never come.

So, for the next six weeks Peter prepared her meals, cleaned the house, helped her with her medicine, and watched her slowly wither away. Some days even doubling up on her dosage the pain pills did little to ease her suffering. For the final two weeks of her life, a hospice agency was called in to help ease her suffering. Peter felt helpless. There was nothing more he could do for her other than hold her hand and read to her from her bible.

The end came quietly, one Spring afternoon. Peter was sitting in a chair at her bedside reading from the Gospel According to John. He looked up, watched her chest rise and fall one final time... and then become still. She had a serene look on her face; all the pain was gone and she was at peace.

Peter was not at peace. He had come home hoping to strengthen his resolve, now after experiencing his mother's suffering and death, he was questioning his faith even more.

He spent most of the summer going through his Mother's things. Giving what he could to charities and tossing out the rest, Peter prepared the house for sale. He didn't know what he was going to do or where he was going to go, he just knew that he could no longer live there. The last room to be cleared was the kitchen. There were no fancy appliances, nothing of any value. When she cooked she did so with old, hand-held, appliances, in pots and pans that had seen better days. He went from cabinet to cabinet, throwing out everything. In the last of the drawers, he found a pile of papers; some were old recipes, old bank statements, and a large envelope that contained last year's Christmas cards and her address list.

Peter remembered that his Mom would always send cards to the people who she received cards from. He was about to toss all the cards when he spotted one that he remembered. It was the card that he had sent to her. Opening the card, he read the hand-written note that he always wrote on the blank side of the card; but what caught his eye was the single piece of paper that fell from the card. It was a state lottery ticket. With every card that they sent to each other they always included a lottery ticket.

His Mom would always say, "You never know, maybe someday one of us will win a million dollars." They would have a good laugh since the most they had ever won was five dollars. Apparently his Mom had forgotten all about it.

Peter put the lottery ticket in his pocket and continued emptying the contents of the drawer. Later that evening, after lugging all the garbage out to the curb, Peter decided to walk down to the corner deli. He would get himself a sandwich and a bowl of soup and check his ticket. After paying for his food, Peter handed the ticket to the clerk, who ran it through the machine. He looked at the machine, looked at Peter and looked at the machine again.

"Where have you been? We've been looking for you for the last six months!" he yelled, pointing up at the sign over his head on the back wall.

Peter looked at the sign not fully comprehending what it meant for him.

'THE WINNING TICKET FOR THE NJ PICK 6 LOTTO DRAWING FOR 12-23-2010 WAS SOLD HERE. CHECK YOUR TICKETS'

"Mister you'd better take care of that ticket; the prize was six-point-three million. Be sure to cash it in before it expires."

"I won how much?"

"$6,300,000. But you won't get that much if you take the lump sum, which almost everybody does. You'll probably end up with a little less than half by the time they figure the present value and take the taxes. But three million is nothing to sneeze at. Congratulations."

Peter took back the ticket and walked back to the house.

"Mom, why didn't you check the ticket? Maybe you could have done something, or just enjoyed it while you had the chance. God, what are you trying to tell me? What do you want me to do?"

The next morning he got his answer, in the form of a tiny seed that was planted in his brain. Before he called the number on the back of the ticket, he picked up his mother's bible and it fell open to a passage from the Old Testament, the Book of Samuel, which described the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem. He read for several minutes and then flipped to a page at random in the New Testament. It was from the Gospel According to Luke describing Jesus entering the city of Jerusalem before Passover.

The lottery agency told Peter that he had to go to Trenton with the ticket for verification and, once declared a winner, to receive his check. He took his mother's rickety car and, with a little luck and a lot of prayer, made it to Trenton. Two hours later, he was presented with a check.

On the long ride home the seed began to grow. Peter wanted to believe; he just had so many doubts. Why would God allow such a good, faithful woman to suffer so? Why was He causing Peter to doubt his faith, putting so many obstacles in his way? Jerusalem suddenly popped into his head. Maybe God was telling him that the key to restoring his faith in Him was where it all began: the Holy Land, the spiritual home of two of the world's major religions and the third-holiest city of a third. He now had the means available to him to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Now he just had to find out how.

"If that's how you feel, my son, "I suggest you give this woman a call," said a dejected Father. Kevin, handing him a business card. "She handles all of our tours of the Holy Land; maybe she can set something up for you. Good luck, I pray that you find what you're looking for."

Peter called the phone number on the card and made an appointment for the following day.

"I don't have anything available at the moment; all the tours are full, so I can't slip you in with a church group."

Looking at her calendar she continued, "If you can wait until the middle of November, I think I can get you hooked up with the guide that I recommend for all my tours. It would be an individual guided tour, which would run about $8,000 total. But if you can afford it, I can't think of a better way to see the Holy Land."

"Yes, that would be great if you can arrange it."

"Give me your contact information and I'll contact him to see if he wants to do a single. He'll be just finishing a tour on Sunday night and doesn't have another for over a week. I'll give you a call."

Two days later she called giving him the good news. Her guide had agreed to take the assignment. Payment arrangements were made and soon he was confirmed for his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

On Friday November 11th, at one o'clock in the afternoon he boarded an El Al flight, destination Israel.

Chapter 2

After an exhausting twelve and a half hour flight, Peter finally exited the plane and headed for the baggage claim where he would meet his guide. He continued around all of the people gathering around the baggage carousel and toward a group of men holding signs. Spotting his name, Peter approached an athletic looking man in his late forties.

"Hi, I'm Peter."

"Hi, welcome to Israel. My name is David Navot; I'll be your guide for the next week as we tour the Holy Lands. Is that all of your luggage?"

"Yes, I was told to travel light."

"Good, let's get started; this way to my car."

Twenty minutes later, they were in David's car, a small SUV, driving in traffic heading north.

"Here's a map," David said handing it to Peter. "I've highlighted our route for the day. Our first stop is at the ruins of Caesarea. We'll head north and then turn left towards the coast."

Peter studied the map noting that State of Israel was about the same size as the state of New Jersey. As they drove they told each other a little bit about themselves. Peter explained that he had graduated college and was currently on leave from the seminary.

"David, tell me about yourself."

"I have a degree in Archaeology, I served three years in the military as all Israeli men do, and I've been a guide for about fifteen years."

"Are you married, do you have any children?"

"Yes, I was married. I lost my wife to cancer about seven years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you; she was a good woman. Anyway, I have three children. My oldest daughter, Rimona, is twenty-eight, married, and lives in Tel Aviv. My son, Eli is twenty-six; he also lives in Tel Aviv, and is in software design for the government. And finally, my little girl, Dina, is twenty-three and lives with me."

The work traffic eventually thinned out as they continued north, along the coast, reaching the town of Caesarea. They traveled through several residential quarters and then entered a recreational area. David turned down a road lined on both sides with tall bushes and date palm trees. When they emerged from the road-side vegetation, they were greeted by a panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea and a long wall with a series of arches at its base.

David parked the car and they walked across the sand towards the structure.

"These are the ruins of an aqueduct built by the Roman Army, which occupied this land over two thousand years ago. It carried water from the mountains ten miles from here to the port city of Caesarea."

Peter examined the structure and was amazed to discover that it consisted of two walls built side by side, made entirely of cut stone, held together by its own weight. The only mortar appeared to be that used by modern engineers to preserve several areas that were in danger of collapsing.

He continued to walk across the sand until he reached the shoreline. He kicked off his sneakers, rolled up his pants and entered the sea. It was his first time in the Mediterranean. After a few moments he returned to where David was standing; they read a passage from the Old Testament and returned to the car.

"Our next destination is the port city of Haifa. We'll spend a couple of hours touring the city, stop for lunch, and then head to the hotel."

They talked as they drove up the coast, David pointing out various points of interest and Peter asking many questions. The more they talked the more David liked this gentle young man. David stopped at the Church of Mt Carmel and parked at the promenade that overlooked the port and the sea beyond. Afterwards, they ate lunch at a small restaurant.

"I think that's enough for the first day. It will take about an hour to drive to Tiberius and get you checked into the hotel."

Peter was fascinated with the landscape as they drove. It was so different than that of New Jersey. The plants were different, the hillsides were covered with brown grass and what trees he could spot where mostly palms and cypress. He asked many questions and listened attentively to David's answers.