Stanislaus
It was after Mass on a cold, rainy evening in November. Father Peter was returning from the vestry and noticed him there. His name was Stanislaus Pirok. He wasn’t a mountain of a man, but you could tell he was solid. You would guess he was almost sixty, but he was actually only forty-six, wrought by a life of hard work. Stanislaus now sat in the last pew, with his head in his hands, crying.
Father Peter was headed toward the Sanctuary to extinguish the candles and stopped to see what was wrong. He put a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and asked. “Stan”, he said, “what’s got you so upset?”
“Oh Father,” Stan replied, through a thick Polish accent, “Your homily was so beautiful tonight.”
Father stood silent a moment, not sure how to take this compliment.
Stan continued. “In my country, where grew up, we had much faith, but not lot of teaching.”
“I understand.” said Father Peter, encouraging Stan to continue.
“Tonight you say that Eucharist is like miracle. That bread and wine are really Jesus’ Body and Blood.”
“Well that’s true.” said Father, “That’s why it is always important to treat the host and the wine with reverence.”
“Exactly,” said Stan, his eyes welling up with tears again, “Look at these!” he finished, thrusting his hands palm up toward Father Peter.
Stanislaus had worked with steel for decades and his hands showed the wear of countless cuts, abrasions, scars, calluses and the occasional burn from a piece of metal not yet cool enough to touch. His hands, like the rest of his solid frame, were tougher than the steel they had shaped for years.
“For years, I have been receiving Communion in these hands, not knowing real value of what I was handling.” And as he thrust his hands forward again, he finished, “What kind of throne is this for a King?”
Father Peter suddenly remembered that Stan had not come up for Communion. He stood thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled gently.
“Stan”, he said, “you know, you may receive the host on your tongue if that's how you feel. But I know that you are very smart when it comes to the life of our Savior and before you decide that is your only option, there are a few things I'd like you to think about”
Stan looked at him, puzzled.
“Who came ahead of Jesus as His herald, to tell the world He was coming?”
“John the Baptist.” Stan answered.
“And wasn’t he the voice, crying out in the wilderness? Living off the land, eating locusts and honey?”
Leaving no time for him to reply, Father continued.
“And how many of the apostles were fishermen?” he asked.
Stan went to reply, but Father Peter went on.
“Lastly, Stan, and most importantly, what was Joseph’s occupation?”
Stan smiled slightly, putting the pieces together.
Softly, Stan replied. “Joseph was carpenter.”, he said.
“So Stan, surely, John the Baptist’s hands were worn rough from scraping his survival from the wilderness. And the Apostles hands must have been cut and scarred by the fishing nets and the knives. And when Jesus was an infant, a helpless child, he was carried in hands that had been worn rough with work, struck with a hammer and gashed by tools a million times.”
Stanislaus looked down at his hands again, then at the Crucifix behind the altar. And finally, back to Father Peter.
“There is no doubt in my mind.” Father spoke. And cupping Stan’s hands in his own, he continued, “This is the perfect throne for a King. You see, God entrusted Jesus to hands like these throughout His whole life.”
Stan let out a visible sigh of relief and Father motioned for him to follow.
The two men walked up to the Sanctuary, knelt and then continued on behind the altar. Father Peter opened the tabernacle and took out the host.
Holding it up for Stan he said, “The Body of Christ.”
Stan held out his hands and proudly said, “Amen.”
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