They say that when you are finally called to serve the Lord, that there will be a sign to herald the calling. During my time in Lincoln County I believe that this indeed was what happened, and that my eyes have finally opened to my true path.
First sign was the visit from my brethren. It has been close to 20 years since I’ve been back to the place I grew up.  Birchwood Farm was as many other farms in the area, several acres of good tilling soil looked after by several generations of family. My father told me that it had been in our family as far back as the 1800’s, when Mormons first began settling Utah. I’m sure that my brothers and sisters are still looking after the farm, along with a host children they’ve had by now. When those Mormon folk came into town it was like a breath of home. I talked to them for a bit and asked how the community was fairing these days. By the looks of them it seems that folk back home are still doing all right. Strange that this made me feel a bit homesick, and I did something I haven’t done in 20 years; I wrote a letter home. Just felt it was the right time and the right thing to do. Maybe 20 years is enough time for my folks to forgive me for what I had done, and start mending things again.
Second was when I helped lay to rest the spirit of that poor missionary. There was some talk in camp that one of the missing holy relics from New Orleans might be found near by at an old mission ruins. When we arrived there it turned out that the spirit of the Padre who ran the mission was trapped there, since he hadn’t been given a decent burial. Not being Catholic and all, I deferred to Angelique Marie De Sanma to give the services, but this didn’t seem to work. Turns out, in their belief it has to be a man to conduct their services. So with the help of Christi Sykes translating the Latin text for me, I ended up performing the service instead. I’ve always helped the living, but this was the first time I had ever helped the spirit of one past living. It was a revelation to me. As I stooped to gather his remains so that they could be buried properly, it was then that it dawned on me that, in a way, his work was still unfinished. Now I’m not talking specifically about bringing Christianity to the native peoples since they have their own beliefs, which is just fine.  I’ve spoken often enough with Cody and Miryam to know that what they believe in is just as morally uplifting and blessed as any Christian faith. What I’m feeling is that faith, any faith that condones peace and brotherly love, needs to be spread once again so that people can find hope in this shattered world. Thinking this, I gingerly buried what remained of his body, and said a little blessing of my own hoping that he might find peace in the afterlife. I also promised to take his burden up, once again spreading the faith and hope to those who were in need.
The final sign was when I traveled to the holy land. While going through that gate I didn’t know what to expect. Jerusalem of this time period was in turmoil, and I was worried that all I would see was bloodshed and pain. I had heard about Paris, and the thought of a similar fate happening to Jerusalem made me sick to my stomach. I thought my fears were bourn out when we were attacked by Islamics as soon as we stepped through, but then afterwards we met the Queen of Jerusalem and her retinue at a camp nearby. They were noble and kind, showing us true hospitality even though we were strangers (in many senses of the word) to their country.  I could not help feeling like I was undeserving of such kindness, and that this trait has somehow been lost by much of humanity in my lifetime. We spoke of events in and around Jerusalem, and their hopes and fears. I also spoke at some length with a gentleman about the Brotherhood of Masons, which seems to be well thought of and held in esteem in these times. It was about then that Jaufré Rudel, Lord of Blaye, made a gift to me. He gave me a container of water he had filled only that day from the river Jordan, close to where it is believed Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist. I was speechless in my amazement, for I felt this was truly a holy gift. I asked if there may be someone who could bless the water for me, and Lord Rudel introduced me to Abbess Loveta, of the Convent of St. Lazarus at Bethany. She was gracious as the others, and did me the honor of blessing the water. It was then that I realized that God had truly smiled upon me, and that my feet had set down on my true path of calling. I thanked both the Abbess and Lord Rudel for their gracious gift, vowing that the water would find an honored place in the sacraments and services back home.
For 20 years I’ve been working for the caravan, helping folks by fixing their tools. And when I wasn’t at work at my forge, I’d help them in other ways as well. Always the bible has been my guide to how people should treat one another, ethically and morally. In some places around the P-Poc people still believe in the bible, and live their lives set down by the tenants there in. In other places, the belief in anything has been lost, as well as anything you would call humanity. And then there are all those places in between, where people are still try to do good deeds to help folks, but they themselves have lost their faith. Well, it looks like it’s time for me to start traveling down that dusty road to those places in between, and help folks find hope and faith once again.
