Chapter 9
Francis walked leisurely through the lush green Asian woods carrying his friend’s long black umbrella and met with only two medium sized wild dogs. They looked at him as if to say, with only a hint of a growl, you leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone, but this is really my turf. The sunlight splashed through the trees and allowed the occasional streams and pools of water along the way glitter and dance with light. Francis’ physical body was on the road but his heart was still back at the Chan Buddhist Monastery. The time went all too quickly there and so much had happened. He would never be the same.
His master was Jesus, no question about it. These beautiful traditions, however, from all parts of the world, held much truth as well. He often encouraged people to celebrate all that they hold in common with others and to respect those things which are different about one another. Now he was the different one. He found himself wondering why people were staring at him when he walked through the streets of Asia. He even checked his shirt once or twice to make sure that he had not left any evidence there from the wonderful baked goods he bought along the way at the little bakeries which dotted the village streets. The egg custards were the best! Then he realized why he drew so much attention--he was the only Westerner in the area many times. He laughed heartily at the names the Asians had for Westerners: “round eyes” and “big noses.”
Francis remembered a story his Jesuit friend Ignatius told him one time. It seems that Ignatius was on an elevator somewhere in Asia, along with a young mother and her little son. The boy spent the brief ride commenting on the big nose and round eyes of the tall English speaking man in the elevator car with them. The mother politely tried to quiet the boy who, of course, spoke one of the Chinese languages. As the mother and son left the elevator, Ignatius wished them a good day in fluent Chinese and told them that he enjoyed the ride with them. Mother and son slipped away red faced and Ignatius had a good laugh. That’s the way to celebrate differences Francis thought—with humor—not fear and prejudice. We fear what we do not understand.
The monk admired the beautiful black Asian hair that people in these parts have. Francis couldn’t understand why some of the younger people, and a few older ones, would turn it red or some other color. Everyone’s perception of beauty is different, he mused. They see some aspects of Westerners as beautiful and therefore want to imitate it, and we do the same thing regarding Easterners.
The traveler was brought out of his reverie by coming upon a huge clearing where thousands of people were milling around a Buddha the size of the Empire State Building. The beautiful golden statue rested at the top of hundreds of steps and glistened in the mid-afternoon sun. The scene made the round eyed, big nosed Westerner jump for joy and seemed to exaggerate his features even more. His suitcase on wheels bumped along behind him. Due to his fair skin, Francis opened up the umbrella he had used to keep the dogs away and started upward, step by step by step, approaching the enormous image of the Buddha.
Some of the people ascending or descending the steps looked at this strangely adorned person from another land and tried not to laugh. They would put their hands in front of their mouths, trying to maintain the politeness and mannerliness of the Asian people. Francis made his bizarre appearance stand out even more by hollering out to them in a language that most of them did not know. “Oh go ahead and laugh. Don’t worry about it. I know I look ridiculous. I just don’t want to get sunburned. Have a nice day.” The laughter was infectious. That’s the way to celebrate differences. Beautiful Chinese music floated through the air as he made his slow and prayerful pilgrimage upward, and Francis felt like he was floating too--suitcase, umbrella, and all.
The Buddha grew larger and his features became clearer as the monk ascended the steps. Prayers of gratitude welled up from deep within him. How had he gotten to this point in his life? The more he followed Christ, the more Christ seemed to reveal himself through other people, other cultures, and in other lands. His study and experience with Eastern religions had drawn him more and more deeply into the mystery of Christ. It also allowed him to immerse himself in a five thousand year old system of medicine and become a Chinese doctor in addition to the clinical psychologist which he had already been. When people would comment on his various interests and multifaceted background, Francis would simply say that, “the only thing I don’t do is wheel alignment.”
He was just about at the top of the more than many steps now. It took about a half hour to make the climb. There was a large circular walk at the top of the steps and around the base of the Buddha, complete with restrooms and trinkets for sale. Whether it’s Lourdes, Fatima, or the big Buddha, people are people, and the religious trinket sales crop up. It’s just nice not to have to deal with the Blessed Mother with a clock in her stomach here. Oh no, I think I just spotted a Buddha earring—and on a Westerner.
Now there’s a salesman I’d like to do business with, Francis thought, as he walked toward an ice cream vendor sitting in the shade of the stone wall, which encircled the walkway around the base of the Buddha. The hot and tired monk pantomimed, yelled, overemphasized, and pointed to the type of ice cream he wanted to buy. The Chinese man behind the freezer looked at him kindly, smiled patiently, and said in perfect English, “Oh you want a chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream on a stick.” Francis responded much more quietly in the affirmative and closed the big black umbrella which was over his head, hoping that he might appear a little less ridiculous, but accepted the fact that it was probably too late for that.
Suitcase rolling behind him, bumbershoot closed safely under his arm since no wild dogs were likely to venture up here, and a dripping ice cream on a stick in his hand, Francis made several happy laps around the feet of the Buddha, stopping from time to time to look out over the surrounding forest, trying to catch a glimpse of the monastery he had just lived in. He leaned against the wall looking out over the island and prayed for his community, family, and friends back home. He also prayed for freedom from addiction for the many people in this area who appeared to be addicted to gambling, often horse racing of all things. One of the reasons Francis was given a grant to come to Asia was to teach health care workers about the addictive process from a Western point of view. He did what he could to explain the twelve-step model of recovery to several large groups of people and then stayed on to give a spiritual retreat. Now that his professional work was done, he had some time to do things like this--make a Buddhist retreat and visit this beautiful island.
The umbrella went up and he went down step by step, more quickly and easily than he had ascended. The gentle Asian music continued to lull Francis into a state of quiet repose. The people continued to smile at him or laugh behind their hands now and then as he descended back to earth. Francis really claimed for himself the inner freedom of not caring what anyone thought. It had long been his contention that the freest people of all are those who can get beyond what other people think and be who they are before God.
When he reached the ground, Francis went to the gift shop and, having learned his lesson from the ice cream vendor, asked in English if they carried a CD of the music that had been playing. He did not pantomime or shout or point. The lady behind the counter didn’t even begin to know what he was talking about. Would he ever get this routine right? Maybe it’s some sort of plot! He launched into his Harpo Marx act and the woman understood her customer perfectly. She did have the music and he was delighted to purchase the CD so that the community could enjoy this music with him back at home. Wow, I must be learning to speak Chinese! He ambled over to the bus station nearby. Francis did not want to miss the only afternoon bus because that bus would take him to the dock on the island, and from there he had to make a boat ride across the South China Sea back to Cheung Chau Island, and then a walk from the dock up the mountain to Xavier Retreat House where he was staying. If it grew dark, he might never find his way back because there were just too many winding streets and wild dogs—and darkness.
Shifting gears now, back in the hills of Pennsylvania, Mutt clanked away from his home in the old family van. He left the better car there for his wife and daughter to use if they had the need. Within fifteen minutes he was chugging up to the farmhouse, which contained both captive and guard. Maybe I’ve overreacted. Who am I to play God with people’s futures? Was it too late to get out of the mess that I created for myself and for everyone else?
Perhaps his hyperness this last day or two, along with his ensuing behavior, was the result of too much of that antidepressant he had recently been given by the family practice doctor. He had heard a clinical psychologist who specializes in psychopharmacology on the evening news recently. He talked about a “seratonin crisis” which can result from too much of certain antidepressants. Weren’t they supposed to be safe? It seems like every drug on the market was a miracle drug and also very safe when it was first being used by people. Before too long it becomes a problem drug. Okay, I got my crazy thinking over for the day. I am in good professional hands and I’ll leave it at that. Mutt was calmer now as he walked into the farmhouse and closed the door gently behind him. Jeff, in marked counterpoint, was quite the opposite.
Jeff was extremely restless and needed to get out of the house for a while. He started babbling to Mutt about being cooped up there, and about what they had done, and would they get in trouble. He couldn’t seem to control his verbalizations. Mutt thought that if Jeff filled his mouth with food he might just quiet down for a while. Better let him go out and get something to eat. Clearly both kidnappers were having second thoughts about the adventures of the night before and the ramifications thereof. Jeff’s behavior triggered something in Mutt and, blood pressure rising, he started to yell at his partner in crime. Soon the two of them were in a shouting match and Jeff eventually left the old house and set off in the van. Mutt was more agitated and confused than ever now.
Brother Matthew lay on his aching back staring up at the cobweb of lines drawn through the cracked ceiling; it looked like the cracks in an old china cup. His body was in pain from the bruising he had taken due to being mistreated, especially from being taken in and out of the van, along with the ride itself. His heart ached to be back at the monastery, the place where he believed that God was calling him to take his simple vows. Though these vows would be renewed yearly for six to nine years, Matthew knew in his heart that he was committing himself to God through the Salesian Monastery forever. Lying there, he thought that he recognized the voice of one of his captors from someplace else in his life during their screaming match. Last night was such a haze that he couldn’t come up with any solid clues from that time period either. The vague recognition of a voice was his only shred of hope at present.
The kidnapped victim began to pray with a mantra. But hold me safe from the forces of evil. But hold me safe from the forces of evil. But hold me safe from the forces of evil. Not only was this a spiritual experience, but also wholistically speaking, it would help to take him out of his left-brain hemisphere and move him more into the right brain hemisphere. The right brain was much more creative and flexible than the left, which can get stuck in logic and not see a new way out of things. Once again, Matthew thought, the need for unity and cooperation, not antagonism between that which appears to be different, is made manifest.
Mutt paced back and forth in the outer room. His mood swings were becoming increasingly intense. His highs were higher and his lows were lower. What was wrong with him? What was it that Doc on the TV said? It was something about the need for good psychotherapy, even if one was taking medication, when dealing with many of the emotional disorders. He had been on this antidepressant for six months and initially it seemed to help but it wasn’t doing much now. A general practitioner said that he was depressed but the doctor didn’t seem to pay much attention to the mood swing part of Mutt’s story.
The guy in the next room, who was about to throw his life away in a monastery of all places, dumped his little girl. If the place was a cult he might get some support in helping Matthew out of his misguided commitment. Those Catholic places have pretty high standards and accountability to others so no one was likely to help him expose them. That’s where Jeff came in handy. He had his own reason for helping with the kidnapping—apart from the excitement and adventure Jeff seemed to think all of this was. Mutt needed to protect is daughter’s honor and keep Matthew from doing something stupid. Buy one; get one free.
The sunny and quiet afternoon lulled both captor and captive into an agitated slumber. Both dreamt of a good Spirit and an evil spirit doing battle. Darkness and Light struggled mightily to overtake one another. Flashes of light and color, movements so quick they blurred before the eye, sounds in every key and tone. Then, at the height of the ferocious battle…
Slam! Mutt was in one room and Matthew was in the other, but both lifted into the air as the front door banged open with a vengeance. Jeff entered, enveloped in a flurry of commotion, carrying fast food from a McDonald restaurant and offered an aromatic bag of it to Mutt. They were still on the outs as far as Mutt was concerned, so he refused with a shake of his balding head. Jeff proceeded to take a bag into the inner room and gave it to the detainee. He couldn’t look Matthew in the eye now; he couldn’t even speak to him. The fun was over. He returned to the living room and told Mutt that he had better get himself home. Jeff thought that he might have heard something on the car radio about Mutt’s daughter, Christi.
“What did they say? What did they say?” frantically screamed Mutt as he shook the round little man in his catcher’s mitt-like hands until both of them almost lost their breakfasts.
“I didn’t get the whole story, all I heard is that the disappearance of a young woman is being investigated. I’m not even certain that it is your Christi.” Mutt barreled out of the house, letting the door slam behind him. Matthew struggled with the muffled voices he heard through the closed door the way someone would try to tune in an old crystal radio. He knew that name and the voice were in his memory bank somewhere. Who was it? Who was it? It was as if there was a wall blocking him from remembering something.
Even though he wanted this ordeal to be over with, Matthew knew deep down in his soul that he was in the center of several converging lives and that if he remained patient, the situation could resolve itself and the inner conflicts of the people involved might well be healed. Maybe the block to his memory was involuntary and unconscious. The young monk knew the vast power of the unconscious, for good and for healing, from past encounters with his own unconscious processes. Abbot Francis had been around during those days to guide him through the maze of his mind and help to shed some light on the situation. This time he needed to be, with the help of God, strong enough and insightful enough to go it alone. But hold me safe from the forces of evil. But hold me safe from the forces of evil. But hold me safe from the forces of evil.
It was now Sunday afternoon and there was still no sign of Brother Matthew. The state police reminded the monastic community that Brother Matthew was a grown man and had been missing for less than twenty-four hours, but they promised to keep an eye out for any strange occurrences that might lead them to their missing brother. Trooper Jonas and his fellow officers would also go over to Beltzville State Park to see if there was any indication of where Matthew might be, since that was where he had planned to spend the previous day. It was to be his monthly hermit day, a day of quiet and inner listening provided for in the Rule of the community.
Hester Von Kiel had returned from a long and cathartic talk with the kindly pastor of Salem Lutheran Church and felt more confident and assured than she had for several years. She had come to terms with the shallow reasons for her deserting her church and had been welcomed back into the fold. Unconscious projection of her own needs and insecurities were powerful and subtle forces indeed. The diaphanous thoughts and feelings that lurk beneath the surface of the mind help us to grow in integrity and wholeness, she now understood, but the need for self-honesty and accountability was vital if the natural process of psychic growing was to occur. Much to her somewhat confused delight, Hester’s process of New Life was moving along at a dizzying pace.
Her pastor was not only comfortable with Hester’s spiritual connection to the Salesian Monastery, but encouraged her returning member to continue to spend time with that community. She told Hester: “There is room enough for all in this world. God’s table is wide. Do whatever brings you closer to God. What you are doing sounds very honest and healthy, nothing like what you based your earlier decisions on.” Hester was generally a more proactive and “take charge” type of person than the monastics she had become friends with. She continued to feel anger over the recent deaths and difficulties associated with and assailing several religious institutions or people in the area. She was also quite concerned and unsettled as to Brother Matthew’s fate. He taught her to “loosen up” and she had been a good student. She would find out what was going on one way or another. Nothing will stop the new Hester! I wonder if “Charlie’s Angels” need another angel.
The woman, presently abounding with newly found freedom and assertiveness, drove over to the Beltzville State Park, a twenty-minute ride. The state police had come and gone. She had been to this park one time with Brother Matthew, during which he pointed out one of his favorite spots. She walked along the edge of the lake in the area she and her monastic friend had strolled along some months prior. Hester let the gentle lapping of the waves, produced by a few powerboats, soothe her. Matthew’s favorite “spot” was pretty large. It was yards and yards of beach. There was a circle of rocks arranged on the beach which seemed to beckon to her. She saw that someone had had a campfire there not too long ago but it could have been just about any one.
Hester kicked clumps of sand and debris around for about fifteen minutes and found nothing remarkable in the process. The only thing she managed to do was to dirty her new running shoes—bought specifically for sleuthing. She came across a soda can, a dime, a plastic bag, and eventually something blue that peeked out from under a little rocky crevice. It was wet and sandy but she pulled at it with the determination of a fired-up detective and retrieved a book from under the protection of the rock formation. Jessica Fletcher’s only rival let out a gasp. It was a copy of a classic spiritual text from the 1600s entitled Introduction to the Devout Life and written by Saint Francis de Sales. This book is a foundational book for the members of the Salesian Monastic Community. Clearly Brother Matthew had been here.
Mutt Simko was looking for information too as he bounded in through the front door to his home. “What’s going on?” he screamed at his red-eyed wife who was surrounded by a ring of rumpled tissues. Trooper Jonas stood up and placed a large hand on Mutt’s uneasy shoulder and used the direct approach. “Mr. Simko, we need you and your wife to come over to the hospital and take a look at someone’s body which was recently found.”
“I don’t have time to do that, Officer; I’m looking for my daughter.”
“I understand that, sir, and hope to God you don’t find her where I need to take you. Right now, if you will.”
Later, tension crackled in the air as the trio walked down the long corridor in the basement of Pocono Medical Center to the hospital morgue. The attendant let them in after Trooper Jonas signed the necessary paperwork. A large refrigerator door was opened and the morgue attendant wheeled out a gurney on which was a body shrouded in a white sheet. The chill from the refrigerator exponentially increased the chill in the couple that was asked to view the body. The trooper nodded and the attendant, responding to his cue, pulled the sheet down to the shoulders on the body of a young woman. Helena Simko keened from her soul as Mutt Simko doubled over, held his stomach, vomited.
The attendant gently offered a towel to Mutt and stood closely behind the pair in case either one of them would collapse. The trooper had to do his job. “Is that your daughter Christi?”
They both mumbled a garbled affirmative answer but Mrs. Simko’s head shook slowly back and forth, non-verbally saying no, it can’t be her.