St. Francis

They were a nice looking couple, maybe in their mid-sixties. I’m not sure what drew me to observe them. Perhaps it was what they were purchasing—clothes, shoes, and a belt or two. I noticed they had great taste in clothing. After all our paths were crossing at the factory outlet mall in Silverthorne.

As they were checking out the clerk asked the gentlemen if he would like to donate $5 to the Colorado relief efforts for the fire victims. He paused. His shoulders slumped a little. He took a moment before he responded. I couldn’t quite make out what he said to her, but I knew in that moment he was a victim of the wildfires that have ravaged our state this summer.

The clerk was taken back. She didn’t quite know how to respond. I wanted to go tap him on the shoulder and ask him if he said what I thought he said, but I felt a gigantic lump forming in my throat.

Then I noticed his wife. I couldn’t see her face, but by her body language I could tell she would rather be anywhere but there.

I’m sure in the midst of public tragedy and loss the questions become unbearable. That might be why she left the store while her husband completed the transaction.

The clerk, a little more composed now, asked him what fire he had been in.

It was the Colorado Springs fire. We had lived there less than a year. (pausing)

It was our dream home, he said, barely audible.

I wasn’t the only one observing this scene. I think the shoppers and other employees in earshot of the conversation had paused to listen.

He went on to say that they owned a home up in Summit County and were staying there for the time being.

His purchases started to make sense.

Then my mom stepped forward, compelled by compassion for this couple. She went up to the man and with tears in her eyes asked him about his loss. He reached out to her and placed his arm on her shoulder. I could tell he was moved by her tenderness.

We visited a few more minutes with him. He explained that he had felt a wide range of emotions in the last several days—grief, anger, loss, and depression. His honesty was moving. He said they would never build a home in the same area—too many memories.

Then he told us that when they were allowed back into their community to view the destruction, he found one item that had remained in tact. Everything else around this one piece was charred. But the statue of St. Francis, that he had given to his wife for her garden, was still standing.

I’m a believer now, he said.

He thanked us for our concern and walked away.

Oh how I longed to ask him what he meant by that last statement. Do you believe in the statue? In St. Francis? In God? What do you believe in?

Curiosity got the best of me. I pulled out my phone and quickly Google-d Saint Francis. This is what Wikipedia had to say: Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals and the ecology, was a Roman Catholic saint who took the gospel literally by following all Jesus said and did.

I thought it was appropriate for a garden statue, but I was a tad disappointed. I wanted him to say he had found a personal relationship with Jesus in the midst of this tragedy. That he was now a devoted follower of Christ, just like St. Francis. I tucked my phone back in my purse, and as I did, I realized that this little statue, and all it symbolizes, is weaving his story to point to Jesus.

Thank you St. Francis.