Dear Jesus! ‘Tis Thy Holy Face
Is here the star that guides my way;
Thy countenance, so full of grace,
Is heaven on earth, for me, to-day.
– St. Thérèse of Lisieux, Canticle to the Holy Face

The artist shut his apartment door. Wrinkles covered a grizzled face that had once been handsome, and his ash-grey hair was the color of the morning sky. He opened his umbrella.

Muddy water framed the sidewalk with puddles, and mist hung like a wreath around the townhouses lining the street. The colors of painted brick were hidden beneath a dusty film. People were just beginning to stir.

A young mother passed by with a bag of groceries in one hand and a baby pressed close to her heart. The child looked into the old man’s eyes and smiled.

The metro was crowded and smelled of weed. Albert looked around, but no one looked back. A man in clerics cast an anxious glance at his watch. A teen in jeans stared at something in his hand. Everyone seemed occupied with something that demanded all their attention.

The doors opened. A sweaty shoulder pressed him forward, and he was carried with the crowd. “Pardon me,” murmured the minister before disappearing down an escalator. The train announced its departure with a harsh bell tone. Latecomers scrambled aboard. Mist coated the artist’s glasses as the platform emptied.

Sunlight danced across large shop windows with sills dripping from the recent shower. An oboe broke through the dull city bustle. It was a familiar theme, and the artist began to hum along. What might heaven be like? Surely every child asks that question. He certainly had. Would it be like that simple melody, free from sirens and tears? The distant smash of glass and screech of a car alarm made him quicken his pace. He turned the corner.

A young professional stood out from the crowd. She held her head high, and there was determination in her step. Perhaps she was a rising lawyer like his daughter. But Meg’s hair was darker—at least it used to be. He hadn’t seen her in years. Albert stepped aside for the young woman. She flashed a suspicious look in his direction and hurried past.

It was evening. The monastic chapel glowed with golden beams of sunset tinted by stained glass. Aged oak choir stalls cast long shadows across the sanctuary. A gentle breeze from the cloister garden slipped in through an open window.

Albert rolled his paintbrush into a pouch and descended the scaffold. It would still be a few weeks before the restoration was complete, but the fresco was done. The delicate features of Virgin and Child had been obscured by nearly a century of soot and incense. Their faces were again full of light.

The creak of a door announced the entrance of a young man clothed in habit. The artist acknowledged him with a nod, but the monk didn’t seem to notice. His face was grave and without emotion. It aged him considerably.

The monk genuflected, approached the organ, and fumbled through some music. It must be hard to be a religious, Albert thought as he began to clean his brushes. The door creaked again, and the monk was gone.

The artist climbed the scaffold one more time. The child was so close, and the mother so tender. She held out her son with eyes filled with love. Their faces were now bright, and Jesus smiled. He knelt in prayer just to rest a moment.

The monks found him in the morning. They offered a Mass for the repose of his soul, which was celebrated with the solemnity typical of the house. Yet it was the sermon that the brothers talked about for months on end. It became the gold standard of the perfect homily.

All eyes were on the preacher as he praised the merits of the artist who was punctual, hard-working, and diligent. This was the laborer who bore the full day’s burden in the vineyard without complaint. This was the steward who doubled the value of his talents. This was the man who set his face to the plow and never looked back. With how much more vigor ought the brethren devote themselves to the mission.

The next morning, two brothers walked together in the cloister garden. The gravel beneath their feet was wet, and rainwater lined the edges of the path. Streaks of sunrise set ablaze the overcast sky.

“Did you see his face when they took him away?”

“No, did you?”

A bird’s song rang out from a nearby bush. They walked a few steps in silence.

“He was smiling.”

✠

Photo by Br. Seth Bauer, O.P. (used with permission)