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WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT "WITH BLACK & WHITE COMES THE GREY"
PROLOGUE
A blistering wind howled with ferocity outside Father Flannigan’s
bedroom window. Its bellowing force made the windowpane shake and its
rattling sound echoed so loudly through the unlit room that it could have
awakened the dead.
But its boisterous clatter fell silent to the battle that raged in the
seventy-five-year-old priest’s head. He had a heavy weight upon
his shoulders, so burdening that if he were ever to unload it, the order
of good and evil on earth would become imbalanced.
He tapped his fingers on his antique desk as he tried to read his Braille
Bible. His rosary was beside him, still damp from the frothing of his
sweaty hands. He could hear the ticking of the seconds on the grandfather
clock in the corner of the rectangular room. Having touched his special
pocket watch just a minute ago, he knew it was nine-thirty at night.
As he sat there trying so desperately to find refuge in the Bible, he
heard a knock. “Come in”
A petite, fifty-seven-year-old nun poked her head through a narrow opening
of the door. In a very slight, Italian accent, she asked, “Father
Flannigan, may I come in?”
“Of course, Sister Alda, come sit down, please.” He pointed
to the prearranged chair on the other side of his desk. Each piece of
furniture was strategically positioned in his room so that he knew where
everything was, and so he could walk around freely.
The nun hesitated for a moment, obviously feeling uncomfortable, then
closed the door and sat down in silence. She fidgeted in the plush, burgundy
chair and cleared her throat twice, trying to muster her words.
Father Flannigan waited for a few seconds, but when his patience wore
thin, he started, “Sister, did you place the call?”
“Yes, Father, I did.”
“Will she be coming?”
“Yes, she will. She said she would be here tomorrow morning.”
“Good. The sooner the child is baptized, the better. I will call
Archbishop O’Malley tonight and tell him the boy will be baptized
tomorrow.”
Sister Alda cleared her throat once more. “Um-Um”
Having known the sister for over twenty years, Father Flannigan knew that
‘um-um’ meant something was on her mind. Sister Alda was never
one to shy away from speaking her mind. She always made her opinion known
regardless if you asked for it or not. In directness, he asked, “What
is it, Sister Alda?”
She procrastinated for a second, as if wondering if she should ask her
question, but the father’s finger tapping impatiently on his desk
pulled her out of limbo. She whispered apparently in fear her words would
be heard by more than the priest in front of her, “Do you think
‘He’ knows about the boy?”
In continuum with her whispered words, Father Flannigan murmured, “No,
I don’t think so. ‘He’ hasn’t found out about
her yet. So I’m assuming the boy is still safe.”
Sister Alda took a deep breath.
Sensing her continued anxiety, Father Flannigan asked, “Now what
is it, Sister?”
She looked at his blank eyes and seemed to gather her nerve to say, “Father,
I think we should tell her who she is, now. She has a child to protect.”
Father Flannigan violently shook his head and shouted, “No! She
must not know now! Only God knows when the time is right. He is the one
who decided when to give her powers and when to take them away. No, Sister
Alda, her fate is in His hands, not ours.”
Obviously forgetting the fear that her words might escape the room and
be heard by someone else other than the Father, she shouted, “But
she needs to know who she is and that ‘He’ is looking for
her. And now that she has a son, ‘He’ might come after him,
too.”
“No, Sister, that will be going against God’s wishes. By telling
her, we could be jeopardizing everything. No, we must never tell her.
Mankind’s safety depends on it!”
She bowed her head in acknowledgement, apparently feeling the potency
of the priest’s words and his wisdom. “Yes, Father, you’re
right. God will know when the time is right.”
Father Flannigan sighed in relief. “Yes, that is how it has to be.
Now, if you don’t mind leaving, Sister, I want to make the phone
call to the archbishop before it gets too late.” He picked up the
phone on his desk.
Sister Alda got up and walked towards the door. “Of course, Father
Flannigan, good night.”
Before she shut the door, Father Flannigan asked, “What is the boy’s
name?”
“She said his name is Jonathan.”
“Well then, Sister Alda, pray for Jonathan’s safety—pray
for hers, and ours as well. Pray like you never have before. That is all
we can do.”
“Yes, Father, I will,” she said as she closed the door.
While Father Flannigan waited on the phone, he whispered, “And may
God help us all.”
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