A teary little boy was calling. His voice was shaking strong enough to win over the volume of his voice. He was a five-year old fair skinned, light blue eyed blond of short curled hair. He was standing outside a church's two stairs front door entrance ; where in one stair was sitting an old man, a beggar, with a clean brown shirt, but teared on sleeves. The old man has his brown stick for blind people by his side while he has his right held up begging for alms.
There wasn't any other person nearby. The morning mass just started a while ago.
The old man heard the boy calling.
"What happened son? Where is your father?"
The teary boy looked at him. He turned around him. There was no one else close by. He gave his look back again to the old man. He walked towards him.
"Can I sit by your side?"
The boy asked and the old man smiled.
"Of course. Have a seat."
The old man responded, tapping the floor beside him. The boy went.
The boy felt relief knowing he was not alone. Here was a man who called him to sit by his side, just like his grandpa.
Every time he woke up in the early morning, he got out of bed to look at his dad in his room. He wanted to know if he had gotten home from his business trips already. Whenever he was not home yet, he always tried to check the living room, in case his grandpa was still awake watching television until he fell asleep. His grandpa became his refuge in his time of loneliness, missing his dad.
"Where is your mother, son?"
The question from the old man made the boy set aside his memories of his grandpa. The boy looked at him with a sad face and bowed head.
The old man's smile on his face was replaced by sadness.
After a while, he asked the boy another question.
Before the boy answered the question, his eyes went to look over his right side where a little sanctuary was placed. He and the old man were seated on the left hand side of the stairs with their backs on the church's door. The sanctuary was far right to the other end of the stairs.
"I was walking with dad. I stopped to look at him."
The old man moved his head as if wondering what the boy was talking about.
The boy gave him a questionable look.
"Can't you see the little boy with a round thing in his hand?"
Nodding his head, the old man came to understand what the boy was talking about. Other people had already described to him how the Holy Child looked like inside the glassed box he was in.
"Your father was not holding your hand then?"
He asked the boy another question.
"Yes. We went to the market at the corner."
The old man was listening attentively.
"He let my hand go. I was looking at a toy. Then, he was gone."
"I went outside by the door."
The boy rubbed his eyes with his fingers to dry his tears.
"Daddy told me that if I get lost, look for the police."
He stopped. His tears started to come again.
"I did not see any police by the door. Many people were moving inside. Daddy was not coming, so I thought that maybe he went back here looking at the little boy's little ball in his hand."
The old man extended his arm to the boy's shoulder. The boy moved to sit closer to him.
There came a change in the boy's face from sadness to a sort of excitement.
"The ball looked nice. We passed here. I told Dad
I wanted to see it closer. He said no, we would come back later."
Understanding the father's message, the old man tapped the boy's shoulder.
"You believe your father?"
With sudden movement, the boy stood up in front of him and shouted.
He said with joy and glorious eyes while pronouncing those words. He remembered the many times his father fulfilled his promises to him. So many times that when he failed he never felt bad anymore.
Every time that his daddy failed with his promises, his grandpa would explain to him that he never meant to hurt him. He believed his grandpa all the time. He believed his father loved him. He always believes in his father, because he loves him too.
Both of them heard the voice from a man running from the side of the sanctuary.
His father found him. Happily the boy ran to his father's arms. They hugged and talked a little. His father took a bill from his wallet and put it in the old man's hand.
"Thank you very much for looking after my son."
The old man did not say anything. He felt the bill on his hand. Based on experience, he knew it was a hundred dollar bill by the touch of his fingers on it. Beside, he was a half-blinded man with cataracts.
The boy hugged and kissed him on the cheek to say goodbye. He heard his father asking him a question.
"My son, did you go to him?"
The boy smiled as he turned his look where his father's finger was pointing. They both looked at the Holy Child.
"Yes daddy. I told him I lost my daddy, let him find me. It was not a ball on his hand."
His father smiled and lifted him up in his arms.
"I will tell you more about him. We have to go."
The boy hugged his father tightly. He waved goodbye to the old man without realizing he was blind.
The old man stayed. The hours passed. He was seated in the place for long hours already. It was early in the day when that little boy waved to him. The ten o'clock mass just started when the boy came to him. To his counting, the last mass was going on and would finish soon.
As soon as he sensed that there should not be anyone or that many people inside the church, he did his best to stand and with the help of his stick, he went inside. He stopped when he felt beside him the bowl for holy water bumping himself into the sculptured angel holding it. He dept a couple of his fingers in to make the sign of the cross to pay respect. He closed his eyes. He prayed.
"Father, it has been a long time since I have turned my back to you. My own father has never come back to look for me. You have taken away my mother too. I don't blame you. My stupid gambling has led me to lose everything I owned, including my mother, wife and son."
His tears started to fall and he sobbed. The church caretaker saw him.
The man of around fifty years came to check on him.
"Yes I am. Just give me a few minutes to pray. I promise to go."
The man then left him alone and went to turn off the lights except the main altar.
The old man continued praying.
"Forgive me. I don't know what else to say, but forgive me. Take me as a child asking you, Father, to please find me. Send me your Son, my Lord."
Then he started to move to go out of the church to where his founded little corner has been his home whenever the charitable group of people failed to find him to take him to the Refuge for Street People to spend the night in.
He was seated there for half an hour after the church was closed. He was about to lie down to sleep when he felt a hand touching his forearm softly.
"Come with me. I have a better place for you."
To the old man's mind, he thought that the charitable group came finally.
"Where are you going to take me this time?"
The man responded. He sounded an old man like him.
"I am Matthew's grandpa. His father, my son, has asked me to look for you and take you with me to our own Home for the Aged."
The boy's face shouting, "Yes, I believe!", came back to the old man's mind. He started to give a cry. He sobbed, leaped with joy in his heart.
The writer realized his pen ran out of ink. He got up from his chair after throwing the empty pen to the little bin below his working table. He looked at his table clock, then went to his bedroom. He was about to lie down to sleep when he saw a pen on top of his bedside table.
It was a sound of complaining from him. All he wanted was his bed. But he could not sleep after all. He was turning uneasily from one side to the other and glimpsing at the pen. Finally, he surrendered. He got up and picked up the pen.
The writer went back writing.
"What is your name old man?"
Matthew's grandpa asked him. He looked at him through his almost white eyes with cataract and smiled.
The other man chucked with laughter.
"Well Jeremiah, my father named me Jesus."
After a second, both of them shared their laughter.
Then the old man looked back at the church while Jesus opened the front passenger seat of his car.
Both left in the car and the caretaker lighten up the front of the church.
The writer still wanted to continue writing. But once again, the pen ran out of ink. He smiled at it before throwing it away.
"Well, I guess, this time you'll make me sleep. Will you, The Pen?"
And the writer went back to bed. With table light off and no pen around.
