Marco and the Book

“I’m not gonna die in this alley,” he spat out, leaning on the door with his shoulder. The groan of the old hinges seemed to bounce off the walls in the chambered space inside, surprising him.

Inside, it was cool, a draft from somewhere wafted through the air,causing the candles to flicker in their iron holders at the altar. Rows of empty pews filled the place. Marco flopped onto one at the back.

The wooden surface was hard, but he was glad of a place to lay down. His moan blending with the bong of a bell somewhere outside.

“Let me help you, son?”

Startled, Marco blinked, attempting to focus in the direction of the voice. A man stood in the aisle a few feet away, his black full length garment identifying him as a Priest. Marco’s hand went for the revolver in the blood stained holster beneath his shirt. He dragged it out with painful effort.

“Keep away,” His hand shook as though he had Parkinson’s. “I’ll be gone soon. I need a couple of minutes to rest.”

“You will not be conscious long enough to go anywhere if you don’t get that wound treated.” The man seemed to be completely indifferent to the weapon pointed at him. “This is the house of God. Put the gun away. Let me help you.”

Marco was losing the battle to hold the gun level anyway.A few seconds passed. He let the pistol fall with a clunk on the pew.

The Priest moved towards him. “That bleeding must be stopped.”

The urge to lay back down was overpowering. The Priest hurried away. Marco’s gaze wandered. An old Bible lay on the pew just beyond his head. He reached out, and accidentally knocked it to the ground. The book hit the floor with a loud clump.

Swearing under his breath, Marco slowly reached down to pick it up. The pages fell open, and a line of words seemed to stand out to him:

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

The words seemed to be alive somehow. He stared at them mystified. Then coming to himself he shoved the book away from him.

The Priest returned with water and a shiny red first-aid tin. The splashing of the water seemed louder in the stillness. Marco managed to lift the Bible, the pages still open. “This verse,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What does it mean?”

The Priest squinted at the place Marco had his finger. “It means God is always present, even when we are not aware of Him.”

The savage laugh that burst out of Marco quickly deteriorated into a rasping cough. “How is that going to help me?”

“It’s an offer Marco, an invitation,” the Priest replied.

The Priest cleaned his wound, Marco clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. Through clenched teeth he asked “How do you know my name?” his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The Priest smiled. “Your face has been on the news.”

As the firm but gentle hands treated the wound, Marco’s mind drifted back to the past few hours. The crack! crack!of gunfire, the betrayal, and the roar of an engine as his so-called friends sped away, leaving him bleeding in the warehouse.

“Having a gun pointed in your face didn’t seem to worry you much Father. Why is that?”

“It has happened to me many times, the priest replied shrugging, and I am still here.”

In the days that followed, Marco remained at the church, too weak to leave. The creak of the pews became a familiar sound as he shifted uncomfortably during the long hours of silence. Father Miguel, brought him food and drink, the clink of dishes signalling his arrival.

“I read some more of this,” Marco admitted one evening, holding up the Bible. “It’s… interesting.”

Father Miguel grinned. “God’s word has a way of speaking to us, often when we least expect it.”

Marco grunted. ”I’m not the right material Father, for the saint life I mean.”

“Nobody is,” the priest answered, quietly. “That’s what grace is all about.”

The content of Marco’s reading in the book stayed with him. Over the weeks, he found himself drawn to the stories the Priest shared—stories of redemption and second chances. The rustle of pages turning became familiar,from many nights of scanning the book.The sound of Marco’s slow laborious reading aloud, reverberating in the cavernous silence.

One evening, as the tolling of the bells declared the end of Service, Marco Delgado, tough guy, approached the altar, clutching the Bible in his hands. “I think I’m ready,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “I want to change.”

Father Miguel took his hand. “Let’s pray.”

Months later, the sound of children’s laughter rang through the churchyard as Marco stood outside, watching them play. He wore a clean shirt, his hair neatly combed, and his face held a peace that was entirely new. He had accepted the invitation and it was making a difference.

He had found refuge and strength beyond himself, in the one who is ever present to help.