Toward That Which is Beautiful

relief.
On the mornings when Tom Lynch’s tall form strode into the sanctuary and bowed deeply in front of the altar, she concentrated on her missal in front of her, allowing herself only an occasional glimpse at him. He recited the words of the Mass in Spanish intently, gravely, as if every word were crucial and precious. Only in his sermons would humor flash. Then he would come down from the sanctuary and stand among them, urging the few people there to come forward to discuss the readings.
His sermons were actually conversations; Kate admired the way he could get people to express their thoughts about the gospel of the day. Tom would ask what they thought Jesus meant when he said that the kingdom of God is within you, or that one should render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, but render to God the things that are God’s. Often Alejandro would speak up, and so would the novice, Magdalena, passionately and at length. Kate rarely dared to speak, unsure of her Spanish.
Kate found herself looking forward to chance encounters with Tom around the parish. She would look up hopefully when a door opened in a classroom. Once he had come upon her when she was sitting on the floor with the women in Magdalena’s weaving group. The young novice from Lima had organized a group who met twice a week to weave caps and sweaters, which they could sell in the marketplace. Formerly the women worked alone at home or in small groups in the campo, but Magdalena thought they would enjoy coming together in the large clean parish hall to chatter and exchange news. After Magdalena’s group grew from four to sixteen or so, Kate decided that she would learn to weave, and she joined the group when she could. The women seemed delighted to teach her, guiding her awkward fingers with rough dry hands that deftly wove the red, yellow, purple, and blue yarn and wool.
One day while sitting on the floor, she noticed dark, muddy boots and black trousers next to her. “What’s this?” Tom asked in English. “The new one is going native on us.”
She flushed. So what if the women couldn’t understand? It was rude to speak in English, and joking about going native seemed uncharacteristically insensitive of him. She answered in clear Spanish so that the other women would hear: “It’s just that women are always busy being useful, unlike men who seem to have time to stand around watching others work.”
After several moments of shocked silence, the women tittered, their hands covering their mouths. Tom grinned at Kate and walked around to greet each woman and admire her work. Honestly, Kate thought, the man must have been a politician in another life. He could surely turn on the charm when he felt like it. She noticed that he sat for a long time next to normally quiet Magdalena, who talked earnestly to him in a low voice.
Suddenly Father Tom looked at Kate. “What are the two of you doing after this meeting?” he asked. Kate looked at Magdalena, who shrugged.
“I was just going to catch up on some letter writing before dinner. Why?” Kate asked.
“I’d like you both to ride out to Villa Maria with me. It’s a small isolated enclave of a few families about an hour from here. I need to talk to the men, and Magdalena could check on the women and children who need medical attention.”
Magdalena nodded, and headed for the clinic to gather some supplies and her first-aid bag.
But why did Father Tom want her to come along? She didn’t speak Aymara, and they would not have a translator. Just then Tom turned to her, with a big grin on his face. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and turned away to find some paper, pencils, and crayons as well as some hard candy to take to the children. It felt as if he could read her mind.
A half hour later Kate climbed into the back seat of the jeep with the supplies while Sister Magdalena sat in front with Father Tom. The young Peruvian nun was animated as she chattered on in Spanish, laughing often at the priest’s remarks. Her recent dark mood had lifted. Kate couldn’t hear what they were saying over the noise of the engine, but as she watched them she found herself smiling. She settled back, gazing through the dusty windshield at the dirt road wandering through green fields dotted with yellow wildflowers. She had to keep reminding herself that it was spring here in the Southern hemisphere. Her world had been turned upside down. Gray hills undulated ahead of them, at times allowing a glimpse of the severe, snow-covered peaks of the Andes in the distance. Above, puffy white clouds bloomed in a sky so blue it was blinding.
They passed a woman driving her sheep through the field. Her face was hidden beneath the brim of a man’s hat, and her red petticoat peeked beneath a full brown skirt that swayed as she walked. It looked as though she had a baby hidden in the striped blanket slung over her shoulder. Kate tried to imagine her life. How far did she have to walk to get home? Did she have food or water with her on her journey? How often did she have to stop to nurse the baby? She realized she knew nothing about this woman’s life.
Finally they came to a group of five huts in the middle of a field, no trees, no grass, just a dusty yard near the road. When Tom pulled up in front, several men emerged from one of the huts, shyly pulling off their hats to greet him. The priest jumped out, embracing each one, slapping them on the back as he joked with them in Aymara. Soon two more men came out, followed by the women and children. The men headed with Father Tom to one of the huts. Magdalena and