Spirit-night

Forty one years ago tonight
I committed my soul to peace
Forty one years of strife and life
have committed my path to war.
What was that calling my heart and mind
to light across distant shores?

I remember it well, that night.

About a dozen of us, young and old, stood quietly waiting upon an old priest to pray the ritual he'd intoned perhaps a thousand times before. This man who bore the name of an Irish Patriot of several decades before, who, in a manner similar to his namesake, would be gunned down a few years later outside his own church doors, prepared himself against the unseen forces gathering to thwart the plans of these few innocents.

It was a night like no other. No mere "Santana" winds blew, this was the flight of the Holy Spirit across the land. We, each of us newborn babes in old skins, looked at each other and recognized what the winds suggested as they moaned and then howled through the doors - and KNEW that it was not the usual Southern California storm typical of Winter. As we donned the white garments signifying a freshly forgiven soul, and repeated the formula which would grant us the much-needed cleansing, we prepared for decades-long battles, though we did not comprehend it at the time. But Something inside us knew . . .

Now my Saints have left me. Mystics have traded their places for pretenders. Betty Whipple, holy mother, devoted wife, my Godmother and spiritual teacher to many, knows the Presence directly, as does Father Michael Collins, and Father Aloysius Ellacuria. Holy people, one and all, and many others who were friends and family are now lost to time and circumstance. Only charlatans remain to dupe and deceive the pure of heart who seek Truth in sincerity.

I stand alone of my kind, waiting the hour of the beast, who we jokingly called "charlie" with a small "c". Waiting for the abomination to make his appearance in the Temple, foretold so long ago. Waiting for the ultimate war - the REAL "War to end all Wars". I feel the gathering of spirits on the Other Side, slowly churning the ethers, the impending Doom. Skirmishes there are reflected here in the physical. Wars, and rumors of wars, are commonplace. Hardly anyone remembers the Old Code anymore.

But we few, who stand ready, wait with the patience of Job for the final onslaught. We few, unknown to each other except in spirit, scattered across the globe, which some call Home and others know as a brief waystation, a battlefield in the aeons-long struggle upward, we who were chosen, not merely called, wait for the single unmistakable clarion.

It is almost upon us . . . do you hear it? It blows on the Winter Wind, when the night is long and dark. Have faith, you few. Our Time is almost at hand.