Sign It

was a few minutes after six, and almost an hour remained before the church closed. The cause of the parish priest's concern was a poorly dressed middle-aged man who had been sitting in a pew under the choir for two hours. The priest knew his parishioners well and was certain he was not one of the flock entrusted to his care. He could count those who could devote so much time to prayer on the fingers of one hand.

The newspapers were constantly reporting on attacks on rectories, so he was cautious. He walked down the aisle again and again, even peering into the choir, clearing his throat loudly, but the stranger was unfazed. He continued to sit in the semidarkness, and the priest wasn't even sure if the man had even noticed his presence. The priest finally called the sexton and whispered in his ear to keep an eye on the stranger. Then, from behind the slightly open sacristy door, he watched the sexton, carrying a broom and bucket, wander between the pews lined up in the wide nave. Sweeping the floor, he approached the stranger. The broom even caught his legs once, only causing him to shift to the edge of the pew, which was plunged into even deeper darkness. Finally, the sexton gave up and retreated to the sacristy.

"I'm going to my room, so please pay attention to what's happening here," the priest told him.

In his apartment, as he did every evening, he sat in the armchair by the window and opened his breviary. He tried in vain to concentrate on prayer. The stranger's presence still haunted him.

"Who could that be? What does he want?"

By seven, however, nothing had changed, so he returned to the church. The sexton was sitting in a chair in the sacristy, observing the interior of the church through a crack in the door.

"He hasn't moved," he informed the priest.

The priest pointed to the clock.

"Seven o'clock."

He remembered words from years ago, the catechist's words, from his last religion lesson.

"Don't forget about God, and then God won't forget you either. He's always with you, you just have to know how to read His signs."

This was once his town. He went to school here, took his First Communion in this church, had a girlfriend here, friends here. Then he left the town that seemed too small to stay. When today, after so many years, he walked the streets, at first it seemed that everything was the same. The same houses, the same trees, even at the school, which he had stopped at for a moment, the doors creaked the same way. He had come because a chapter in his life had closed, so he decided to start anew, and he thought it would be best to do it here, where he had once begun his journey.

"Exactly, signs," he thought. What should I do with myself? Will you give me a sign?"

He heard the door creak. A priest emerged from the sacristy and headed towards him. He stopped a few steps in front of him.

"Sir," he heard a soft voice.

"Yes, I'm listening," he replied.

"It's late. We're closing. You have to leave.

" "Oh yes, leave..."

He rose from the pew and slowly walked toward the exit. At the door, he knelt and crossed himself. Then he rose and quickly ran down the stairs. Once on the other side of the street, he glanced back and looked back again.

Just to be on the safe side, the priest waited until the man had disappeared around the corner and only then reentered the church, locking the door with two sturdy locks.

"Troubled times, oh, so troubled," he said to himself as he walked toward the side exit, keys jingling softly.