Silvio?
The young man looked up from his spot on the steps. He stood up as the old man approached. Good morning, he said.
The old man placed a gentle hand on Silvio’s back as they entered the front doors and said, What are you doing here? You should be at work, no?
I quit.
You quit?
Silvio nodded.
The church occupied the corner of its city block in an understated fashion—a rectangle building surrounded by a sea of grass on three sides, and a spacious parking lot on the fourth. It had no statues, no fountains, and a steeple just pronounced enough to be defined as such. The nave of the church consisted of sixteen pews set in two rows and a pulpit that fit better at the front of a classroom than a sanctuary. The two took a seat in a row near the back. A pewter representation of the Mother Mary hung on a wall behind them.
So. You quit your job?
Last week.
Is everything okay?
It’s better than it’s been.
Does this have something to do with your parents?
Silvio hesitated. Then he said, No.
I’m sorry, Silvio. I didn’t know you were having trouble.
Silvio waved a dismissive hand at the old man. He said, There’s no trouble.
You know that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But do you?
Do I what?
Have anything you want to tell me.
Silvio shrugged.
The two sat quietly for several minutes. Alone in the church. Along the side of the wall, colored sunbeams streamed through the stained glass and into the dark woven carpet. The old man rubbed the creased skin on the back of his hand with the opposite thumb and then he broke the silence with a statement.
I thought your job was a good one.
It was.
And I thought they paid you well.
They did.
So what’s the problem?
Silvio scanned the church to ensure that it was empty before he said, My problem is that history doesn’t remember rich men.
The old man opened his mouth to respond but he was interrupted by the sound of the church’s side door opening. It was a middle-aged woman and she gave the two of them a small nod of recognition before kneeling down several rows ahead of them in the opposite section of pews. She bowed her head between the triangle formed by her two clasped hands with the support of the pew ahead of her and began to silently hiss at the church’s altar. The sun rose fully now, and the new lust of rays revealed in the air of the church a swarm of small, white dust particles that seemed to move every way but down. When Silvio took a deep breath they entered into his lungs and when he exhaled a new wave of them swirled and ascended to continue their mindless drift in the still atmosphere of the small church’s interior. He acknowledged none of it. When he spoke again to the old man he did so quietly and craned his neck so as to direct his voice away from the praying entrant.
He said, I want to make a contribution to the world that is significant. I want to do something that feels like something. My job did not.
The old man said, How long have you felt this way?
Silvio shook his head slightly and said, It’s always been like this. It just took me awhile to realize it. I always thought I wanted those things I’m supposed to want. Like a nice job, a nice family, a nice life—all of that.
You don’t want a nice life?
Silvio quietly laughed. I’d love a nice life, he said. But my nice life looks different.
How so?
I’m giving my life to God.
The old man raised both of his eyebrows. You plan to join the priesthood?
Not exactly.
I don’t understand.
Silvio stopped again as the woman on the other side of the nave slowly rose to her feet. A passing car and the commotion of the outside world could be heard as the front door swung open and closed again on the dense reticence inside the church. He waited another moment before he spoke again.
I’m going to be a saint.
A what?
A saint.
The old man squinted at him and said, I don’t understand.
Like Saint Patrick or Saint Michael. Like them.
The old man let out laughter from deep within his chest, but stifled it after he noticed Silvio’s stone face. He said, Silvio?
Yeah.
You’re being serious?
Yes.
The old man shook his head. A saint?
A saint. During Sunday school, my teacher used to give us these cards—like baseball trading cards—that would have a picture of the saint on the front and attributes on the back. She told us to use the cards to pray with. She said that we could pray for a miracle, and if a miracle happened then we could attribute it to the saint that we prayed with. I never got a miracle, but I loved to look at the back and see where they were from and what they were the patrons of and how they died and all of that. They’re good people, and they’re brave, and they’re immortalized by the church—I want to be like that. I want to do things that are important. I want people to know who I am and I want them to remember me when I’m gone.
The old man rubbed his forefingers over his temples in slow and gentle circles. Silvio, he said, There are so many problems with this and I don’t even know where to begin. Those saints you learned about as a child didn’t do those things for their own reputations. You don’t just decide to be a saint—you are called to it, by God.
I have been called. I’ve dreamt of it my whole life. I’m just now realizing the significance of that dream.
The nave darkened slightly as an errant cloud passed over the sun outside. It’s minor form washed in grey the entire paltry town and empty land around it. The old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silvio, he said. This is silly. There is a point when we realize that the dreams we created from childhood naiveté properly dissipate. There is no shame in being practical. I understand that imagining our former dreams can feel like failure—like we didn’t carry through on what’s important to us—but it is okay to let a dream die. It’s only natural, my friend. Whether its sports stardom, or being a princess, or a ballet dancer, or an astronaut, or the President. Whatever. We’ve all longed for those occupations and achievements we determine we want long before we can even comprehend the cost of realizing them—a cost we are unwilling or unable to pay. This is easier to dismiss for some than it is for others. You may simply be finding it harder than most.
Silvio took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Look, he said. I’m not a prophet. I don’t get the luxury of having God speak down to me from a thunderhead. I have to pick up on things more subtle than that—my dreams, my relationships, my sadness—and that’s the sound of his voice. That’s my thunderhead. That’s what roars down to me from the heavens. I’ve ignored it my whole life and look where that’s gotten me. I went and got a girlfriend, a college degree, another college degree, and a nice job. And all I really got was more miserable with the acquisition of each of them. Don’t you see? All