Nicolas Kristo

Excerpt from Chapter 42

Chapter 42. Why God Allows Suffering.

Moments before Nicholas intended to give the signal for everyone to mount up, Maria stepped out of the wagon weeping, calling for Ben. When he came she embraced him, saying Daisy had bitten her tongue again and was bleeding.
Sister Mary went to aid the child while Sister Margaret joined Ben in comforting Maria. Until then, Bernadette had not seen the palsied children and wanted to investigate what so upset their mother.
Calling Nicholas to aid her, she threw her arm over his shoulder and limped to the wagon.
As Nicholas lifted her onto the back steps, Bernadette gasped, holding a hand to her mouth, watching Sister Mary wipe blood and saliva from the child’s face. Tears formed as she witnessed the children convulse and moan with sounds that wrenched her heart, pulling her further away from herself than she’d ever been. Looking on in dismay and pity, she motioned for Nicholas to take her away.
Nicholas ignored her request momentarily as he reached for a towel, then climbed into the wagon to wipe the children’s faces once again. They fell into a sound sleep at his touch.
“I don’t understand,” said Bernadette as Nicholas swept her up and stepped off the wagon. “After seeing the twins in that horrid state, and knowing they’ve been living like that for most of their lives, I can’t understand a single reason God would permit such a thing. Why does He allow such misery to the innocent?”
Nicholas lifted her onto her horse, then mounted his and gave the signal for the others to follow. “You should speak to Ben about this first. Ask about what happened to him, and how he came to wear the mask. Ben was right there, at the inception of Hope Mission, and by speaking to him you’ll gain a deeper understanding. When you record all the things you see and hear, I promise you’ll come away with a rich knowledge of the character of God. But you must know that some things God allows will always remain mysterious. We cannot presume to know the mind of God.”
Bernadette nodded and reined back, waiting until Ben caught up.
“Hello, Ben. Could we ride together a bit and talk? Nicholas tells me how vital you are to the Mission, and since it’s my job to record everything, and you were there from the start, I thought you might be willing to help.”
“By all means,” said Ben, smiling beneath his mask. “So you’re Hope Mission’s new record-keeper. What is it I can help you with?”
“Nicholas wants me to understand the subject of suffering, and said you might be able to help by explaining how you were burned and life afterward.”
Ben told her about his ordeal, praised Anna Borelli for her skills in keeping him alive, and then explained how his life had degraded from there.
“When I first looked into the glass after they removed the bandages, I thought I would faint. I appeared as a monster, and was thrown into a state of despair and misery so dark that if I’d died on the spot I would have thought it a kindness from God. When I went outdoors without covering my face, children ran screaming to their parents. People gasped in horror at the sight of me, and my heart became bitter against God for having rewarded my effort to save my friend with a life of anguish.
“Beyond my appearance, the pain I experienced was unbearable. When a soft breeze glanced over the holes where my ears used to be, it brought me to my knees in a searing pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. As time went by I lost all hope—until Nicholas gave it back.”
“What did he do? What happened?”
“The first thing he did was turn me away from myself by asking if I’d like to carve a gift for Anna Borelli. I was pleased to do so, for she is a fine person for whom life has not been easy. As I worked on a sculpture for her, Nicholas planned and made the mask for me.”
“He helped me in the same way. He made me turn away from myself, and as soon as I did my condition improved,” said Bernadette, glancing ahead toward Nicholas.
“God has given Nicholas a special way with people,” said Ben. “His gifts bring people hope. Before I finished the carving for Anna, he asked me to carve a portrait of myself, and from that he created the mask. I never dreamed it would serve me as well as it has. To start with, my ears are protected from the wind and thus I have no more pain. Further, because Nicholas told me to make the ears slightly larger, I can hear Giovanni’s beautiful voice singing to the children walking near the wagon.”
Arching her eyebrows, Bernadette said, “I can’t hear anything. He’s singing? That’s amazing!”
“It gets better,” said Ben, grinning to himself. “There are mysterious things about the mask I cannot explain. When evil is present, a chill comes upon my face under the mask and warns me to beware. And how does the mask cause people to respect and admire me far more than before I became scarred? Also, Maria tells me she sees subtle changes in the appearance of the mask, changes that reflect my moods and emotions. It’s almost as if it were becoming a real face.”
“It’s true!” exclaimed Bernadette. “When I first saw you, the mask appeared to have a lowered brow, and now the brow is relaxed and expresses a calmness or tranquility.”
“Now that you’ve heard my story, you should ride back to the wagon and ask Giovanni about his life with blindness,” suggested Ben. “His is the most remarkable story I’ve ever heard.”
Bernadette thanked him and walked her horse back to the wagon. As she drew near, she realized Giovanni was indeed singing. She was astonished Ben heard him from such a distance.
Following the wagon, she was enchanted with the song and taken by his words and gentle guitar picking. A sense of wonder overcame her as she looked about and saw wolves and other wild creatures playing or sitting pensively as the group moved ever closer to the mountaintop.
When the singing stopped and Giovanni moved to the front of the wagon next to Makande, Bernadette trotted alongside. “Mr. Giovanni, may I speak with you a while?”
Placing his index finger to his lips, he warned, “I’d love to, but let’s be as quiet as possible, as the twins need to sleep.”
Bernadette moved closer to the wagon, “I’m Bernadette LaViono, Hope Mission’s new journal-keeper.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Bernadette.” The elderly man smiled. “I am also stunned by your beauty. It is as much a gift from God as my newly-opened eyes are to me.”
Bernadette smiled back, warmed as much by his tone as by the compliment. “Nicholas mentioned something of your experiences. Would you tell me more?”
“Well, praise God, He’s blessed me with vision after sixty years in the dark. I am more thankful to Him than words can express. I’ve written two new songs about the day Joseph Solo put his tiny thumbs on my eyes. Two minutes later, I saw light. Then in another minute, I had perfect vision.”
“What was life like before the miracle?”
“Well now, that’s a story. When I was about five, I lost all vision. I became totally dependant on my parents and lived with them a good long time. They read to me on every subject, every day until the day they died, my mother living only a year longer than my father. I was forty when I found myself cast into the streets of Rome, singing to survive. Daily living became difficult, as evil young boys stole what little alms I collected from my day of public songs. This went on for a long time and I became ever more bitter toward God and the lot He’d given me.
“I lived in the streets near death, weak from lack of food, homeless, and in constant darkness. Then, one day, the stealing stopped. When the young thieves approached to take what little I had, they seemed to be scared away by something. Then, each morning when I woke in my shelter under a wagon, I found bread or cheese or fruit in my hand. As time went by, I perceived someone was near all day long, listening to me in secret, chasing the thieves and providing the food as a kindness for my songs.
“One day when I sensed someone about, I called to him, wishing to thank him for bringing a bit of relief to my wretched life. A voice, deeper than mine, came from an alley directly behind me. He said, ‘No, thank you for sounds from Heaven in this wicked city.’ I asked him to come forth but he would not and said he would visit me late in the evening when all were asleep. He said he could help make my life a little safer and would explain later. Then he was gone.
“Late that evening he came and woke me, and led me to his hidden shelter in the city dump. It was warm and spacious, having a small, iron stove and a place for me to make my bed. He led me around, making me familiar with where the dried foods were, and then we sat by the warmth of the stove and he began to explain about himself and why he wished to help.
“He said his name was Jives and I should be thankful I couldn’t see him, for he was born with a host of birth defects leaving him with the appearance of a hideous troll. The bones in his face were misaligned at birth and his spine refused to straighten from childhood, leaving him with a hunch, and a face he could not bear to look at in the glass. It was this man who taught me how to love God and appreciate every day of life. After he accepted the fact he was seen as a monster, he resigned himself to a life of solitude and introspection. Aside from his encounters with me, he would sleep in the day and only come out in the dead of night to attain provisions for himself and for children seeking his protection.
“One night, years ago, a monk spotted him searching the garbage behind his church and allowed him to have free access to the basement under the church library. He’d spend entire nights copying the best literature. After some years, Jives had managed to copy a dozen books, and from the Bible he copied Psalms, Proverbs and the New Testament. Reading the scriptures led him to thinking about why, and for what purpose, God permitted a creature like him to ever see the light of day.
“Before Jives continued, he groaned a deep sigh and lay down in his bed to rest. As he directed me to the firewood, instructing me how to keep the stove constant, he became ill, and before the pitch of night he was in a grave state indeed. Sitting on a stool by his bedside, I reached out my hand and he took it, holding it to his chest. With a feeble voice and a desperate grip on my hand, he thanked me for reaching out to him and explained that no one had ever done that before in kindness. He said he knew he was to die that very night and wanted me to come into possession of what little he’d managed to acquire over fifty-one reviled and dejected years.
“His hand trembled in mine, and his voice declined to a whisper as he continued to explain what he came to believe about suffering and God’s reasons for it. He first looked for meaning in his life and could find none save his books and the homeless children he cared for in the city dump. He came to reason the purpose of his life rested fully on the lives of the children, and that keeping them safe and fed validated his own wretched existence. He reasoned God placed those children in his care, and protecting them was the only source of true happiness he’d ever encountered.
“While in repose, deeper in thought, he said after thinking about it many years, he pondered what life would be like without suffering and hardship, beyond the obvious answers. There would be no need for compassion, or empathy, or sympathy. What need would we have for hope in a perfect world, and how deep could we love without all those attributes? How much faith could we muster in a God who could not identify with His own creation? If Christ had not suffered Himself, and chosen to live as we do while He was here, how could He have learned compassion and empathy? Would we not trust His testimony less if He had chosen to waive His own hardship here on Earth?”
“After an hour, his hand became still and cold, and there was a long silence, and I knew he’d died. Lying in bed that night, across the room from Jives’ body, I began to reflect on my own life as he had on his, and pondered the notion of how my blindness might have aided and tempered me according to God’s design. At first it seemed a cruel lesson, but probing deeper into the providence I suspected God had prepared for me, I came to see my pride in spite of my blindness and self-pity. I saw extreme pride in my voice and the profound effect it had on people. I searched deep within and saw the life I might have led if I had been allowed vision along with a gifted voice, and a disproportionate degree of pride - a pride that would’ve driven me daily toward fame, fortune, and comfort, and finally self-consumption.
“As I lay in bed blind to the outer world, I received vision of the inner world, and came to realize that even having had the hardship of blindness, I was yet prideful and conceited, and I thanked God for revealing the source of my reproach toward Him. Perhaps it was the providence of God that I should by no means see outwardly, before I beheld inwardly the vainglory that would ultimately blind me spiritually from seeing His light. I came to see that I was destined to replace Jives as the children’s protector and caretaker in spite of being blind, and I was glad to do so. In time, I came to feel the same validation Jives did, and all at once my soul did rest and my life had true meaning.
“When I woke the next morning a young boy came into the shelter asking for Jives. When I told him what had happened, he burst into tears and stayed by his side all day. He told me how Jives taught him to read and write, and how he had cared for and loved the homeless children, allowing them to stay in his warm shelter while he searched the night for food and other useful necessities.
“Now, Bernadette, if you turn and look to the end of our caravan, you will see a boy of about fifteen, marching as a soldier, watching over the other children that are walking and playing in front of him. His name is Roberto and he is the same boy whom Jives taught to read and write, and now he is teaching me.”
Bernadette turned and saw the boy marching as a rear guard. Turning back to Giovanni with childish anticipation, she asked her final question, “And what of the pride now that you can see, Giovanni?”
“From the day Joseph laid hands on me, and light came into my eyes, I have become extremely sensitive to pride. When it’s near I see its darkness and am aware of its danger to my spirit. It has no part in me now, and when I sing, I sing to God, for it is He who imparts all good gifts. As I see your exceeding beauty with my new eyes, I have a question for you.”
“And what is that, Giovanni?”
“As you behold your beauty in the glass, who receives credit for that gift? Do you see it as I do, as a gift from God?”
“The very next time I look into the glass I will, with deep humility, ask that question of myself. You are an extraordinary man, Giovanni, and I shall record your story with a tenderness and nobility proportionate to the spirit from whence it came.”
Trotting up toward Nicholas, Bernadette organized the stories in her memory and began to understand, at least to some degree, the reason God permitted suffering. But she wanted to go deeper yet and hoped Nicholas would take her there. As she slowed her horse beside him, Nicholas asked, “How did it go? Did they help to understand?”
“Yes, indeed, Nicholas, both Ben and Giovanni shed light on the question and I’m starting to understand the matter in a deeper way, but maybe you can add to their insight.”
Nicholas gazed at her for a long moment before answering. “Everyone struggles with this question, Bernadette. Wars, famines, diseases, natural disasters and untimely deaths are never easy to rationalize. But miseries of this nature are less troubling than the ones that happen to us personally, such as Maria’s struggle with her palsied twins, and Ben with his scarred face, and Giovanni with his sixty years of blindness, and even Makande and Bell with their lifetime in slavery. The human spirit is capable of withstanding enormous discomfort, including the prospect of death, if the circumstances make sense.
“Many war heroes, martyrs and political prisoners have died for their cause in confidence. They knew, without question, the consequences of their sacrifices. A soldier in battle sees the reason behind giving his life, if it’s a just and noble cause. By contrast, good people, such as those you’ve spoken to minutes ago, have no such consolation. It is the absence of meaning that makes the situation so intolerable. As you look into the lives of the people who surround you, God’s providence will become apparent, but still much will remain a mystery until He reveals it at the end of time.”