SEVEN
By: Debbi K. and Nancy W.
As the men watched the children, Josiah watched the men, studying them. Observing was what he did best. He wondered what thoughts the seemingly commonplace event evoked in these hardened men. For him, it was a bittersweet sense of poignancy because this happy day marked the beginning of the end of Billy's childhood. Mary sense it too. Josiah could tell by the way she gazed lovingly at her little boy. He eyes seemed to recall the tiny baby she had clutched to her breast. She no doubt wondered where the time had gone.
'Funny thing about children,' Josiah thought. Each morning, they awoke looking exactly as they did the day before. But somewhere along the way, the infant becomes the toddler, the toddler the child, the child the youth. Until one day, not too many years hence, Mary Travis would find herself looking into the eyes of the man who was her son.
Tradition holds that seven was the age of reasoning, the age at which a human being was expected to have mastered the difference between right and wrong. Although both concepts, he had learned, varied with time, person – and circumstance . . . .
FAITH
Josiah dragged his feet as he slowly made his way through the crowded city street to St. Joseph's Catholic School for Boys. His hear was as gray and overcast as the San Francisco morning. He was going to Hell. He always knew it – would have known even if his father hadn't told him.
The sun burned his eyes. God's punishment – that was what it was. He tried to blink back the stinging tears, but they overflowed anyway and he wiped them angrily on his shirtsleeve. Then he sucked in a painful breath when his left thumb brushed his cheek. The pain was enough to make him cry, because his father had assured him that it was only a small insignificant misery compared to the torments of Hell.
Hell was the only reason he didn't want to die.
He went to the chapel where the other boys would soon gather for morning mass. He was early, but he thought maybe if he asked God. . . .
What right did he have to ask God for anything? He was a sinner. Miserable, worthless, and damned.
The rears began to come faster than he could brush them away, so he quit trying.
"Josiah?"
The little boy froze. He knew that voice. Father Spellman. Josiah was scared, but he knew better than to pretend he didn't hear. He stood, turned, and bowed his head respectfully. "Good morning, Father," he sniffed.
A large, soft hand reached out and lifted his chin upwards. Josiah's red-rimmed blue eyes traveled up the length of the black cassock to the stern face.
"Why are you crying?"
Josiah felt his gut go cold with fear, but to lie to a priest had to be a Really Terrible Sin, so he told the truth. "My. . . my catechism . . . I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . . " He started to cry harder. He couldn't help it. He was tired and stupid, his thumb hurt and he was going to Hell.
Father Spellman took his left hand. Josiah cried out in pain and quickly pulled it back.
The priest bent down so that he was at eye-level with the boy. "Josiah, what's wrong? Let me see your hand. . . ."
Obediently, Josiah held out his hand for the priest to see the small sewing pin wedged under the thumbnail.
"Oh, my. . .," Father Spellman said. Without giving him any warning, he quickly pulled the object out.
Josiah let out a yelp, but felt immediate relief from the gnawing pain the pin had caused.
"Feel better?" Father Spellman asked?
Josiah nodded.
"Now, I am betting that a certain little boy was playing in his mother's sewing box where he wasn't suppose to be," the priest smiled.
Josiah quickly shook his head. "Oh no, Father . . . I . . . ." The boy hung his head, too ashamed to continue.
Father Spellman was a short, portly man, and Josiah was tall for his age. He was only seven and was taller than most of the nine year olds at the school – but even so, the priest lifted him easily, then took a seat in one of the pews.
"Tell me what is troubling you, Josiah, and remember, it's a sin to lie."
'What did one more sin matter?' Josiah thought. He was going to Hell anyway.
Still, he told the truth. The catechism lesson for that weeks was to learn the Act of Contrition. You had to know it before you could go to Confession. If you didn't go to Confession, your sins stayed on your soul and you would go to Hell. Everyone knew that.
It was a long prayer, and a hard one, not easy like the Hail Mary. It was also full of words Josiah didn't understand. He'd tried to memorize it, but when his father had quizzed him, he'd forgotten everything.
Four hours and hours, his father had stood over, making him read, then recite. Every time Josiah would get it wrong, they'd have to start all over again. Long into the night they had worked, until Josiah's eyes started to close all by themselves. He wanted to stay awake. . . want to learn the prayer. . . but he was a stupid, worthless sinner and he couldn't.
"So, then my father stuck a pin in my finger, he said that didn't hurt anything like the pain of Hell. And that I'd better get use to it because that's where I'm going."
Josiah wasn't crying now. He just hung his head in shame.
Father Spellman was quiet for a long, long time. Josiah would have thought that the priest was as disgusted with him as his father was, except that the strong arms that held him in a close embrace somehow felt safe.
"Josiah? Let me tell you two secrets that your father doesn't know."
Josiah looked up at the priest, whose face was as stern as ever, and still scared him a little.
"The first secret is that father don't know everything, and sometimes they can be wrong. Now, that doesn't mean you shouldn't respect them. What does the Fourth Commandment say?" he prodded.
"Honor thy father and thy mother," Josiah replied quickly.
Father Spellman smiled, then continued. "The second secret is this: little boys don't to to Hell, Josiah. Not because they didn't learn the catechism, not for any reason."
"But if I don't know the prayer. . . ."
"If you don't know it now, you will learn it some other time. It is enough that you want to learn it. God is forever, Josiah, He will wait for you. Do you understand?"
Josiah wasn't sure he did, but he nodded 'yes' anyway.
Father Spellman then stood, repositioned Josiah so that he was stretched out on the pew. He tucked a hymnal under Josiah's head for a pillow. Josiah felt kind of funny, but he hadn't slept all night. Not one wink.
"You have a little rest, then go to your classes when you wake up."
Josiah nodded, almost asleep. . . .
The man smiled. Father Spellman had done more than take a pin from a little boy's finger. He'd removed a nail from his soul.
God was probably still waiting for Josiah Sanchez to see the light and Josiah would never stop looking for it.
