Francesca took a deep breath. “Like I said,” she finally replied, “it’s hard to explain, but lately, God has been getting on my nerves. Is that a sin?”
“Hmm, that’s a new one, “replied the priest. “I guess it depends. Why don’t you tell me what you mean when you say God is getting on your nerves.”
Francesca hesitated for a time, trying to put into words exactly the way she felt. It had been building for some time now, and she wanted desperately to get it off her chest.
“I just don’t know what He wants from me lately, that’s all,” she finally lamented. “I mean, I feel useless these days, and I can’t get rid of the idea that it’s all His fault. What is my life supposed to be all about now that He has taken my husband and my children have grown up and moved away? What am I without my family? I know that I’m old, but does that mean that everything’s over for me? Have I already done whatever it was that God intended for me to do in this life, and I’m just killing time now until it’s all over? It’s starting to really annoy me.”
“Those are hard questions,” answered Father Buontempo, “questions that all of us ask ourselves at different points in our lives. God’s will isn’t always immediately clear to us, so there’s certainly nothing sinful about seeking to understand it. Accepting His will once we understand it can be the hard part.” He paused to assess whether his words were helping her. Then he continued, telling her, “But you ought to remember that even though your children might be far away, they love you and think about you every day, just like you love and think about them. You’re always all together in your thoughts and prayers. That’s how you stay close despite the distance.”
“It’s not enough,” said Francesca, shaking her head. “I need more from my family. They need more from me, even if they don’t know it.”
“Perhaps. But maybe it would help to consider the possibility that your children and grandchildren are not your only family. You’re also part of God’s greater family. Everyone you meet is a son or daughter or sister or brother, or even a father or mother, regardless of your age. They’re all there, all about you, everywhere you go. In a special way, each of them needs you, and you need them.”
“Maybe,” muttered Francesca, not completely convinced.
“Be patient,” the priest told her kindly. “When God is ready, He’ll make whatever it is that He wants you to do next clear to you.”
“No chance He could give me a little hint in the meantime?”
“Sorry, I don’t think He works that way. You’ll just have to wait.”
“And what do I do while I’m waiting?”
“For starters, you can say three Our Fathers,” he told her, “and you can try to stop lying to your children.”
Then he absolved Francesca of her sins, real and imagined, and sent her on her way.
After mass, Francesca stopped by the market to pick up some vegetables and a few pieces of meat to put in a soup she was planning to make. She liked soups, especially in the winter. They were so easy to make, and one good-sized batch cooked on a Saturday night would last her through the weekend and for several meals beyond. As she looked over the selection of stew beef and other meats, Francesca’s eye fell upon the butcher’s weekly special: a nice pork tenderloin roast that would be perfect for a Sunday dinner. In her mind, she could already see the entire meal on the table, the beautiful roast at the center, beside it some roasted potatoes and a platter of sautéed rabe, and maybe a fresh-baked loaf of bread. She could almost taste it all. The beautiful vision quickly faded, though, as the realization that there would be no one there to share such a meal with her once again invaded her thoughts. Just the same, Francesca picked up the roast and put it in her basket along with the vegetables and meat she had chosen for her soup.
“That’s a nice price for that roast, isn’t it?” said a smiling Tony when Francesca brought everything to the cash register.”
“Too good to pass up,” Francesca agreed.
“Cooking for the family tomorrow?” he asked as he tied the roast up in a plastic bag to keep it separate from the rest of the groceries.
“Nope,” replied Francesca, shaking her head. “Just me.”
“That’s a lot of meat for just one person,” Tony joked.
“Oh, no,” explained Francesca. “This is going in the freezer for someday and somebody, who knows when or who.”
“And what about you in the meantime?”
“Me?” she said with a shrug. “I guess tonight I’ll just make myself some soup…and then I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER 8
“Blood pressure is fine,” said the doctor. He removed the cuff from Francesca’s arm and scribbled the numbers down on her chart. Then he took the stethoscope and listened to her heart for a few moments, before placing the cold metal disk on her back. “Big breath, please,” he asked.
Francesca took a deep breath.
“Now out,” said the doctor. He moved the stethoscope to another part of her back. “Again.”
Francesca had come in for her yearly checkup. She didn’t care much for going to the doctor, but it kept her son and daughters from nagging her about taking care of her health. But wasn’t it her job to nag them, she wondered as the doctor continued his examination. Francesca had been in such gloomy spirits earlier that morning that she had almost cancelled the appointment. The thought of having to listen to the children carry on to her about it was the only thing that had motivated her to get in the car. She looked back at the doctor, who was now leaning back against the examination table. He was a young man, late thirties at the oldest, she guessed, though a few flecks of gray on his temples suggested he might be slightly older. If she had to go to the doctor, Francesca ordinarily would have preferred to be examined by someone closer to her own age. Doctor Johnson, however, to whom Francesca had gone for years, had retired the previous spring, leaving this new doctor, Doctor Olsen, to take over the practice. Though she did not yet trust him, trust being something that did not come easily to her, she could not help but like his pleasant manner and the way he took his time with her. He seemed competent enough. Francesca decided that he would do for the time being.
“Let’s see,” the young doctor continued as he scanned his notes, “your heart sounds good, weight’s just where it should be—though it wouldn’t hurt to be a little heavier, believe it or not—and all your blood work looks fine.”
“So I guess that means I’m going to live, Doctor Olsen?” she asked, not particularly cheered by his findings.
“If I had to put it into medical terms, I’d say that you’re healthy as a horse.”
“Then how come I feel so rotten all over?”
“Well, I’d say it’s because of that fall you told me about,” he explained. “You’d be surprised by how long it takes to fully recover from a jolt like that. It might not have seemed so bad to you at the time, but you probably gave yourself a good wrench. Just that little bit of constant achiness you’ve been experiencing catches up with you. Add in a few nights of poor sleep on top of that, and you’re not going to be in the mood for turning cartwheels.”
“I guess,” said a glum Francesca. In her heart, she knew the doctor was right. She also knew that there was more than just the fall that was making her feel so down. She had already confessed all that, however, so she saw no point in bringing it up again here.
The doctor tapped his pen against his clipboard and eyed her thoughtfully for a few moments. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you other than what I’ve told you, but this time of year can get you down as well. We call it seasonal affective disorder. SAD.”
“Sad.