— after Nella Fantasia

“So, your Holiness, now your priests are dead, and I am left alive. But in truth it is I who am dead, and they who live. For as always, your Holiness, the spirit of the dead will survive in the memory of the living.”         – The Mission

When he first came to us,

relentless water

washed down

upon his head,

soaked his priest robe,

made rocks slimy.

Feet slipping,

he tumbled,

down the cascade,

clutching at outcroppings,

finding purchase at last.

When he first came to us,

he climbed,

hand over hand,

above the clouds,

toes finding footholds in crevices,

fingers stretching to find places to grip,

to pull himself up, up, up,

above the falls

to find our home

hidden,

deep within the jungle’s leafy canopy.

When he first came to us,

we crept toward him,

coaxed from the trees,

by his gentle spirit,

the song

that he played

true and sweet,

like water from the falls,

wind through the leaves,

a voice that spoke,

in words that we knew,

but had never heard before.

When he first came to us,

dripping and shivering with fear,

we brought him in,

shared our homes,

our food,

welcomed him into our hearts,

taught him our words,

with our hands and our tongues.

All of us so vulnerable

like little children

our hearts of pure love

laid open.

When he first came to us,

we saw his eyes,

like ours,

his hands,

like ours,

his feet,

like ours,

and knew his heart was

like ours.

We learned,

we loved,

we lived

together.

When he first came to us,

he told us,

“God is Love,”

he showed us,

“God is Love,”

and we knew,

that truly

God is Love.

Then the others came,

down the river,

in boats with awnings

to protect their skin,

perfectly coiffed hair,

uniforms of silk.

They brought

soldiers to steer,

slaves to row,

hearts to judge,

lines to draw.

Then the others came,

the ones who spoke of faith,

lived through fear,

talked of truth,

walked in deception.

They came,

armed with fire,

armed with steel,

full of rage

aimed at a world

that never asked to exist.

They came.

mercenaries trained to kill,

soldiers taught to massacre.

They burned our homes,

hurled arrows at our children,

fired bullets at our women,

set our church ablaze,

shot him dead as he stood his ground.

When he first came to us,

he promised us his heart,

held out his tired hand,

reached to us.

The song

that he played

true and sweet,

like nectar from a bloom,

softness of the moss,

a voice that spoke,

in words that we knew,

meant he would never leave us.

-Maggie Brewer