Murphy was Catholic to the very
core of him; yet this fact had
somehow managed to escape his knowledge.
It was like a small bright afterimage, off-center from the fovea, which the eyeball swivels in an attempt
to catch -- but ever it flees the field of vision. Here it was not his faith that was off-center, but his
sweating, striving conscious mind.
For any time he asked himself the question point-blank: Are you a Christian? the answer was uncertain. “I wish I knew. -- I’m a letch
and a drunkard, more concerned about where my next beer is coming from, and
what might lie under that interesting skirt, than about what our Lord might
require of me. And I am not
about to change that, either!”
(Stubbornly, chin out;
insides turned to porridge.)
The
times when it was nevertheless brought home to him, that he was indeed a
Christian, was when his consciousness was caught off-guard: an unanticipated answering smile; an act of kindness, flowing from him or -- through him; or, wandering down by the pond,
spotting a pair of married ducks.
And
how did he wind up, finally?
Did he eventually formally return to the Church? Was he saved?
Fie,
for even asking that. Let
us each of us attend to our own mission, and
care for our loved-ones, seeking
to understand the Lord’s will.
As for old Murphy -- well, to be sure, I pray for his salvation; but as you know, I pray for the salvation of the Devil
himself.
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