“Ah, damn it,” Charlie muttered as he brushed the scalding coffee from his pants. His hand trembled as he lowered the overfilled mug to the desktop. A ring of coffee quickly pooled around the base.
“I’m sorry, Jenny. I know you hate it when I curse,” Charlie said. He reached for his battered cassette tape recorder and pressed the PLAY button. “Listen to this, honey.”A sizzling noise issued from the tiny speaker, followed by a series of musical chirps that rose and fell in pitch. Charlie grinned and closed his eyes. In the sea of sound he heard it again…
Peace…Peace…
Charlie nodded and sighed. “Yes, I hear you.”
When the doorbell chimed, Charlie jumped and nearly dropped the recorder. He fumbled for the STOP button and cleared his throat. “Who is it?” he called.
“It’s Father Brennan.”
“Aw jeez,” Charlie whispered.
He began shuffling to the door, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in
his hip. “Just a moment!” Charlie shouted.The heavy door creaked open to reveal a grinning Father Brennan, resplendent in his black cassock. Charlie forced a smile in return. “Good morning, Father. What brings you here?”
“Nothing in particular, Charlie. I just thought I’d stop by. It has been an awfully long time since I’ve seen you at Mass. Over a year, I believe.”
“You may be right,” Charlie replied, still holding the smile. Several seconds passed in awkward silence. “Mind if I come in?”Father Brennan said at last.
“Oh!” Charlie sputtered. “Of course.”
Charlie led Father Brennan back to his study, quickening his pace
in spite of the pain. The priest seemed distracted; his gaze wandered through the rooms and hallways as they walked.
“Would you like some coffee?” Charlie asked.
“Ah, no. No thank you,” Father Brennan replied. When they reached the study, Charlie gestured to a nearby chair.
“So,” Charlie said as he eased into his favorite recliner, “you’ve missed me, eh?”
“I’ve missed you. More importantly, God has missed you.”
“The devil you say!” Charlie laughed. “If God is looking for me, tell Him I’m right here. Been here all along.”
Father Brennan shook his head and smiled. “You know what I mean, Charlie. You haven’t participated in the Mass. You’ve gone too long without the blessings of the joyful mysteries.”
Charlie shook a gnarled finger. “Not true, Father. I participate in joyful mysteries you can’t imagine.”
“Indeed,” Father Brennan said with a slight frown. “You mean something more miraculous than the body and blood of Christ?”
“I didn’t know there were degrees of the miraculous,” Charlie replied. “I mean, it is a miracle or it isn’t, right?”
“Well, if you have witnessed a miracle, Charlie, tell me about it.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Charlie said as he reached for the cassette recorder. “I’ll let you hear it.”
Charlie rewound the tape for a few seconds, then pressed PLAY. Father Brennan leaned forward and cocked his head. “It sounds like a flock of starlings and frying bacon. What am I supposed to be hearing?”
Charlie pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhh! Just listen.”
Peace…Peace…
“There it is, Father.” Charlie smiled and closed his eyes.
Father Brennan shook his head. “I’m sorry, but all I hear are birds and breakfast.”
“You can’t hear…the voice?”
“Not at all,” Father Brennan replied as his settled back into the chair. “What is the voice saying, Charlie? Or what do you think it is saying?”
“Please don’t speak to me like a child, Father. I may be old, but I still have a firm grip on sanity. This isn’t my imagination.”
“I didn’t say it was, but I can’t hear what you are apparently hearing.”
Charlie punched the STOP button. “The voice keeps saying ‘Peace’.”
“Really? And who do you think is speaking?”
“I prefer to believe it is God—or something that roughly fits that definition.”
Father Brennan shook his head. “I am very confused, Charlie. Where did this recording come from?”
“Well, you might find the answer difficult to fully understand.” “Try me.”
Charlie drew a deep breath, then slowly rose from the chair. With some effort he shuffled to a nearby cabinet and produced a polished aluminum box about the size of paperback book. The front of the box featured several knobs and a circular loudspeaker grill. A thin metal tube protruded from the top. Charlie gripped the top of the tube and pulled, telescoping the segments until the tube was about 6 feet in length.
“Quite an antenna, eh Father?”
“Is that a radio?”
“Yes, but not an ordinary radio. I built it myself 20 years ago. It’s designed to plumb the depths of the electromagnetic spectrum, all the way down to what we call VLF—Very Low Frequency. I’m talking 10 kilohertz and even lower.”
“What is a kilohertz?”
Charlie laughed. “I guess they are running a little lean on science in seminaries these days, eh? Well, here’s the short explanation. Think of a radio signal as a wave on a pond. Its voltage cycles from positive to negative and back again as it propagates through space—kind of like a wave moving up and down through the water. A hertz is one cycle of a radio wave taking place in one second. A kilohertz is one thousand cycles in a single second.”
Father Brennan nodded. “I’m with you so far.”
Charlie absently twisted the knobs as he continued. “The radio signals you’re accustomed to hearing are on the order of a half million kilohertz and more. What I’m listening to is way below that, way down in the cellar of the electromagnetic spectrum. There are strange things lurking in the radio basement, Father. You can hear the pop and crash of lightning strikes thousands of miles away. There are ghostly ‘whistlers’ that are somehow related to those lightning hits. And there is the Dawn Chorus.”
“The Dawn Chorus?”
“Yes. That’s what you heard on the tape. It’s an electromagnetic choir of angels that begins singing before sunrise and continues for about an hour after the sun is above the ridge tops. You have to get up very early to hear it, and you have to make sure your receiver is a good distance from power lines to avoid the annoying hum they make. Most mornings I take my radio into the meadow behind the house. I just sit and listen until sunrise. The Chorus is a little unpredictable; sometimes it blows my ears out and other times it’s completely inaudible.”
“And you hear the voice of God in the Dawn Chorus?”
“Not every time I listen, but most times, yes. I started hearing it about a year ago.”
Father Brennan glanced at the floor and frowned. “Just after Jenny died.”
Charlie collapsed the antenna and gingerly placed the radio back inside the cabinet. “Nice try, Father, but no cigar. This isn’t the delusion of a grief stricken old fool.”
“So it isn’t Jenny’s voice?”
“Oh hell no,” Charlie said as he sat down. “Don’t you think I’d recognize the sound of my wife’s voice?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that this was senility or something.”
“Father, you’re a young priest. How many years have passed since you were ordained?”
“Five years, Charlie.”
“Ha! That’s a short nap to a guy like me. You are full to the brim with academic learning, but woefully short on life experience. When you’re young it seems as though all the old folks are crazy. Some of us are, but not all. We just have a tendency to become a little eccentric as we approach the edge of the yawning abyss.”
“Ah,” Father Brennan said as he held up his hand. “What the Church offers is a reprieve from that abyss. You don’t need to search for God with a radio, Charlie. He is present at every Mass, if only you’d—”
“What? Show up and eat the wafer?”
“Attend Mass and partake of the Eucharist.”
Charlie shook his head and sighed. “Father, you believe that during Mass the bread and wine become the body and blood of Jesus, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you believe this without any proof whatsoever.”
“That’s the essence of faith, Charlie.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Charlie snapped. “The existence of ghosts and the notion of trans…uh…”
“Transubstantiation.”
“…are both believed by many people without a single shred of proof. Neither idea can withstand the test of science. So, how is it that you choose to believe one and not the other?”
Father Brennan smiled. “That’s it exactly, Charlie. I choose. Faith is a choice. My belief in transubstantiation is my choice.”
Charlie jerked his thumb at the cabinet. “And that receiver is my choice. The difference is that my proof can be scientifically tested. I don’t know why you didn’t hear the voice on the tape. Maybe it was a poor recording. Regardless, I can refine my methods and eventually deliver hard proof. A ham radio friend of mine is working with something called digital signal processing. He says that he can use it to filter out all the noise and make the voice even clearer.”
Father Brennan nodded slowly. “Does the voice speak the same words each time?”
“No, but it is always something kind and reassuring. Two weeks ago it said, ‘I am with you now and forever.’”
“I have to say, that certainly sounds like God.”
“Indeed it does. And it is definitely not Jenny.”
Father Brennan glanced at his wristwatch. “I am going to be late for an appointment, Charlie. I need to get moving.” He stood suddenly and grasped Charlie hands.
“Don’t try to get up, Charlie. I can see your pain, the physical and spiritual.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Father.”
“You’re a remarkable person, Charlie. You’ve had a long life. You survived a stroke that probably would have killed most men. Then you lost Jenny, but still you persevere.”
“That’s because I am garrulous old barnacle who believes in himself,” Charlie said as he gently pulled his hands free. He struggled to get to his feet.
“No, no,” Father Brennan said as he pressed Charlie’s shoulder. “I can find my own way out. Before I go, though, will you at least allow me to bring you a consecrated Host tomorrow? If you won’t come to the Mass, Jesus can come to you.”
Charlie sighed. “Tell you what, come by with a Host at 5AM tomorrow morning. If you’ll listen to the Dawn Chorus with an open mind, I’ll eat the Host. You’ll find me in the meadow, about 100 feet beyond the edge of my garden.”
“Deal,” Father Brennan replied. “See you in the morning.” Dawn arrived to an overcast sky. The milky glow spilled into the valley, slipping silently through the trees and houses. Lights appeared in scattered windows while shivering dogs barked in anticipation of breakfast.
At Charlie’s home, the night was still in reluctant retreat, so Father Brennan chose his steps carefully as he made his way through the shadows. His breath came in clouds of vapor that rose in the crisp morning air like smoke from an incense censer.
The fingers of his right hand enclosed the cold brass of the pyx, within which dwelled the Blessed Sacrament. The Host seemed to radiate faint warmth in defiance of the morning chill. Father Brennan tightened his grip and smiled.
During the drive over from the church, he had considered how he would handle the situation. What if Charlie continued to hear voices? This would almost certainly mean dementia or even schizophrenia. Should he try to convince Charlie to see a doctor? No, Father Brennan decided. The best approach would be to allow Charlie to continue his comforting fantasy. Arguing would only increase the gulf between them.
“Charlie is harmless,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe with a little persistence on my part, the old guy will come around. This is a good start.”
Father Brennan passed a rusted Ford pickup truck and turned to follow a dirt path that wound behind the garage and into the grassy field beyond. He was tempted to call out to Charlie, but the neighboring houses were still dark. Instead, he deliberately crunched the dry stalks and leaves under his shoes, making what he hoped was enough noise to signal his approach.
In the gloom he could see a white Adirondack chair resting incongruently in the middle of a patch of ragweed. Charlie was seated in the chair, wrapped in a red down comforter. From somewhere in the folds of the comforter, the radio antenna stabbed skyward.
“Good morning, Charlie!” Father Brennan called softly. There was no response.
By now Father Brennan could see him clearly. Charlie was shrouded from head to toe in the blanket and leaning against the lefthand side of the chair. A green John Deer baseball cap covered the top of his head and he seemed to be peering downward as if in deep concentration.
“You certainly look comfortable, Charlie,” Father Brennan said. He placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, but Charlie remained utterly still.
“Charlie?” Father Brennan called, much louder this time. He was answered with silence.
Father Brennan quickly knelt beside the chair. Even in the gray dawn he could see glazed, half-open eyes set in an ashen face. Father Brennan drew a sharp breath and fumbled through the comforter to find Charlie’s hand. He lifted it free and pressed his fingers to the wrist. The flesh was still warm, but there was no pulse.
“Oh, Charlie,” Father Brennan sighed as his made the sign of the cross. “I’m so sorry.”
There was a muffled chirp beneath the blanket. Father Brennan gingerly pulled it away to find the homemade radio nestled in Charlie’s lap. He lifted it slowly and twisted the knob marked VOLUME.
Charlie’s Dawn Chorus filled the air with sizzling snaps and the chirping of ethereal birds. “Poor Charlie,” Father Brennan whispered.
Charlie is at peace.
“What?” Father Brennan barked.
The hiss rose and fell like ocean surf. Father Brennan pressed his ear to the speaker.
Charlie is at peace. Oneness. All is oneness.
“No!” Father Brennan cried as he jumped to his feet. That radio fell to the ground, but the Dawn Chorus continued.
Peace for you. Peace for all.
Father Brennan felt as though his heart was about to burst. A wild electric panic sprang from somewhere in his midsection and coursed through his entire body.
“Shut up!” he screamed as be brought his foot down upon the radio. It crackled once, then fell silent.
Father Brennan bolted across the field, tears streaming across his cheeks. He could hardly see to drive as he sped back to the rectory. An hour later, he finally summoned the courage to call the police and report Charlie’s death.
“Good morning, Father. They told me I’d find you here.” Angelina stepped to the side of Father Brennan’s wicker chair and gently handed him a steaming cup of cocoa.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said softly.
“Do you always come out here so early?” she asked.
“Yes. I enjoy the dawn. This time of day has a unique spiritual quality, don’t you think?”
Angelina turned to look at the pink stain creeping into the eastern sky. “I suppose so, Father. Do you always make your morning devotions here? You seem so lonely out in the middle of the garden.”
“When I was a young priest I gained a deep appreciation for the dawn. That fondness has grown even more powerful in recent years.”
Angelina shook her head. “I don’t know, Father. A man of your age should not be exposed to the cold and damp like this. Let me help you back to the rectory. I’m about to throw together a nice hot breakfast for you and the other Fathers.”
“Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be along. Tell Father Jackson that my arthritis is acting up this morning. I’d appreciate it if he would celebrate the 7 o’clock Mass.”
“Sure, Father. Don’t be long or I will have to come back and drag you inside, with or without your arthritis.”
Father Brennan chuckled and waved her off. He watched as she disappeared through the kitchen door.
The edge of the sun was just about to crest the horizon, but Father Brennan knew he still had time. He made the sign of the cross, then gently removed the felt cloth that covered the ancient receiver.
He gently stroked the controls, the cold plastic smooth and comforting on his skin. Father Brennan smiled at the memory of how horrified he had been when Charlie’s nephew handed it to him 50 years before, right after the funeral Mass. His nephew had presented it like an offering gift, holding the box reverently in both hands, the fractured knobs and the scratches from Father Brennan’s shoe gleaming in the light of the altar candles.
“I spoke with my uncle on the telephone the night before he passed away. Uncle Charlie mentioned that you were very interested in his research. He said that when he died, he wanted you to have the radio. It was so kind of you to make the effort to be there that morning.”
Father Brennan’s first impulse had been to politely refuse, but something made him accept the grotesque trophy. He muttered the usual phrases about wishing he had arrived sooner, then quickly blessed the nephew and left.
For decades the receiver sat in his trunk, alone but never quite forgotten. When he retired to the Church of the Incarnation, Father Brennan finally found the courage to give the radio to a parishioner who was an experienced ham radio operator. He fixed the damaged circuitry and offered to put it in a new enclosure, but Father Brennan declined. It seemed almost blasphemous to change the appearance of Charlie’s precious device.
Temptation gradually overcame fear and one day he found himself raising the antenna in the solitude of the predawn darkness. He listened cautiously with trembling fingers working the controls. When the voice arose from the static, Father Brennan cried out and slapped the power switch to the OFF position. The next morning found him with the radio again, and this time he listened intently until the words faded with the rising of the sun.
Years later, Father Brennan still didn’t know if the voice came from God, or from his own guilty conscience. The answer to that question soon became irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the spiritual ecstasy he felt every morning during his private electromagnetic “Eucharist.” The counsel and comfort of the Dawn Chorus came to mean more than the intonations of the Mass, more even than the Blessed Sacrament.
That’s why he kept the VOLUME knob at its lowest setting and held the radio tight against his ear. There was no need to involve the others in such a thing. Besides, they would simply dismiss it as nothing more than the delusions of an eccentric old priest.
Father Brennan closed his eyes and listened to the staccato static and the warbling chirps as the chorus swelled. And in its midst he heard the soothing voice of the infinite.
Peace…Peace…
END