By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept

by Paulo Coelho

  "Let's go in," he suggested.

  We walked through the dark, empty building. Saint Savin, a hermit who had lived at the start of the first millennium, was buried below the main altar. The walls of the place were crumbling and had clearly been reconstructed several times.

  Some places are like that: they can suffer through wars, persecutions, and indifference, but they still remain sacred. Finally someone comes along, senses that something is missing, and rebuilds them.

  I noticed an image of the crucified Christ that gave me a funny feeling—I had the impression that his head was moving, following me.

  "Let's stop here."

  We were before an altar of Our Lady.

  "Look at the image."

  Mary, with her son in her lap. The infant Jesus pointing to the heavens.

  "Look more carefully," he said.

  I studied the details of the wooden carving: the gilt paint, the pedestal, the perfection with which the artist had traced the folds of the robe. But it was when I focused on the finger of the child Jesus that I understood what he meant.

  Although Mary held him in her arms, it was Jesus who was supporting her. The child's arm, raised to the sky, appeared to be lifting the Virgin toward heaven, back to the place of Her Groom's abode.

  "The artist who created this more than six hundred years ago knew what he wanted to convey," he commented.

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. A woman entered and lit a candle in front of the main altar.

  We remained silent for a while, respecting her moment of prayer.

  Love never comes just a little at a time, I thought, as I watched him, absorbed in contemplation of the Virgin. The previous day, the world had made sense, even without love's presence. But now we needed each other in order to see the true brilliance of things.

  When the woman had gone, he spoke again. "The artist knew the Great Mother, the Goddess, and the sympathetic face of God. You've asked me a question that up until now I haven't been able to answer directly. It was 'Where did you learn all this?'"

  Yes, I had asked him that, and he had already answered me. But I didn't say so.

  "Well, I learned in the same way that this artist did: I accepted love from on high. I allowed myself to be guided," he went on. "You must remember the letter I wrote you, when I spoke of wanting to enter a monastery. I never told you, but I did in fact do that."

  I immediately remembered the conversation we'd had before the conference in Bilbao. My heart began to beat faster, and I tried to fix my gaze on the Virgin. She was smiling.

  It can't be, I thought. You entered and then you left. Phase, tell me that you left the monastery.

  "I had already lived some pretty wild years," he said, not guessing my thoughts this time. "I got to see other peoples and other lands. I had already looked for God in the four corners of the earth. I had fallen in love with other women and worked in a number of different jobs."

  Another stab. I would have to be careful that the Other didn't return. I kept my gaze on the Virgin's smile.

  "The mysteries of life fascinated me, and I wanted to understand them better. I looked for signs that would tell me that someone knew something. I went to India and to Egypt. I sat with masters of magic and of meditation. And finally I discovered what I was looking for: that truth resides where there is faith."

  Truth resides where there is faith! I looked around again at the interior of the church—the worn stones, fallen and replaced so many times. What had made human beings so insistent? What had caused them to work so hard at rebuilding this small temple in such a remote spot, hidden in the mountains?

  Faith.

  "The Buddhists were right, the Hindus were right, the Muslims were right, and so were the Jews. Whenever someone follows the path to faith—sincerely follows it—he or she is able to unite with God and to perform miracles.

  "But it wasn't enough simply to know thatyou have to make a choice. I chose the Catholic Church because I was raised in it, and my childhood had been impregnated with its mysteries. If I had been born Jewish, I would have chosen Judaism. God is the same, even though He has a thousand names; it is up to us to select a name for Him."

  Once again, steps sounded in the church.

  A man approached and stared at us.Then he turned to the center altar and reached for the two candelabra. He must have been the one responsible for guarding the church.

  I remembered the watchman at the other chapel, the man who wouldn't allow us to enter. But this man said nothing.

  "I have a meeting tonight," he said when the man left.

  "Please, go on with what you were saying. Don't change the subject."

  "I entered a monastery close to here. For four years, I studied everything I could. During that time, I made contact with the Clarifieds and the Charismatics, the sects that have been trying to open doors that have been closed for so long to certain spiritual experiences. I discovered that God was not the ogre that had frightened me as a child. There was a movement afoot for a return to the original innocence of Christianity."

  "You mean that after two thousand years, they finally understood that it was time to allow Jesus to become a part of the church?" I said with some sarcasm.

  "You may think you're joking, but that was exactly it. I began to study with one of the superiors at the monastery. He taught me that we have to accept the fire of revelation, the Holy Spirit."

  The Virgin continued to smile, and the infant Jesus kept his joyful expression, but my heart stopped when he said that. I too had believed in that once—but time, age, and the feeling that I was a logical and practical person had distanced me from religion. I realized how much I wanted to recover my childhood faith, when 1 had believed in angels and miracles. But I couldn't possibly bring it back simply through an act of will.

  "The superior told me that if I believed that I knew, then I would in fact eventually know," he continued. "I began to talk to myself when I was in my cell. I prayed that the Holy Spirit would manifest itself and teach me what I needed to know. Little by little, I discovered that as I talked to myself, a wiser voice was saying things for me."

  "That's happened to me, too," I interrupted him. He waited for me to go on. But I couldnt say anything else.

  "I'm listening," he said.

  Something had stopped my tongue. He was speaking so beautifully, and I couldn't express myself nearly as well.

  "The Other wants to come back," he said, as if he had guessed what I was thinking. "The Other is always afraid of saying something that might sound silly.

  "Yes," I said, struggling to overcome my fear. "OK, sometimes when I'm talking with someone and get excited about what I'm saying, I find myself saying things I've never said before. It seems almost as if I'm 'channeling' an intelligence that isn't mine—one that understands life much better than me. But this is rare. In most conversations I prefer to listen. I always feel as if I'm learning something new, even though I wind up forgetting it all."

  "We are our own greatest surprise," he said. "Faith as tiny as a grain of sand allows us to move mountains. That's what I've learned. And now, my own words sometimes surprise me.

  "The apostles were fishermen, illiterate and ignorant. But they accepted the flame that fell from the heavens. They were not ashamed of their own ignorance; they had faith in the Holy Spirit. This gift is there for anyone who will accept it. One has only to believe, accept, and be willing to make mistakes."

  The Virgin smiled down on me. She had every reason to cry—but She was joyful.

  "Go on."

  "That's all," he answered. "Accept the gift. And then the gift manifests itself."

  "It doesn't work that way."

  "Didn't you understand me?"

  "I understand. But I'm like everyone else: I'm scared. It might work for you or for my neighbor, but never for me."

  "That will change someday—when you begin to see that we are really just like that child there."

  "But until then, we'll all go on th
inking we've come close to the light, when actually we can't even light our own flame."

  He didn't answer.

  "You didn't finish your story about the seminary," I said.

  "I'm still there."

  Before I could react, he stood up and walked to the center of the church.

  I stayed where I was. My head was spinning. Still in the seminary?

  Better not to think about it. Love had flooded my soul, and there was no way I could control it. There was only one recourse: the Other, with whom I had been harsh because I was weak, and cold because I was afraid—but I no longer wanted the Other. I could no longer look at life through its eyes.

  A sharp, sustained sound like that of an immense flute interrupted my thoughts. My heart jumped.

  The sound came again. And again. I looked behind me and saw a wooden staircase that led up to a crude platform, which didn't seem to fit with the frozen beauty of the church. On the platform was an ancient organ.

  And there he was. I couldn't see his face because the lighting was badbut I knew he was up there.

  I stood up, and he called to me.

  "Pilar!" he said, his voice full of emotion. "Stay where you are."

  I obeyed.

  "May the Great Mother inspire me," he said. "May this music be my prayer for the day."

  And he began to play the Ave Maria. It must have been about six in the evening, time for the Angelus—a time when light and darkness merge. The sound of the organ echoed through the empty church, blending in my mind with the stones and the images laden with history and with faith. I closed my eyes and let the music flow through me, cleansing my soul of all fear and sin and reminding me that I am always better than I think and stronger than I believe.

  For the first time since I had abandoned the path of faith, I felt a strong desire to pray. Although I was seated in a pew, my soul was kneeling at the feet of the Lady before me, the woman who had said,

  "Yes,"

  when She could have said "no." The angel would have sought out someone else, and there would have been no sin in the eyes of the Lord, because God knows His children's weakness.

  But She had said,

  "Thy will be done,"

  even though She sensed that She was receiving, along with the words of the angel, all the pain and suffering of Her destiny; even though Her heart's eyes could see Her beloved son leaving the house, could see the people who would follow Him and then deny Him; but

  "Thy will be done,"

  even when, at the most sacred moment in a woman's life, She had to lie down with the animals in a stable to give birth, because that was what the Scriptures required;

  "Thy will be done,"

  even when, in agony, She looked through the streets for Her son and found Him at the temple. And He asked that She not interfere because He had other obligations and tasks to perform;

  "Thy will be done,"

  even when She knew that She would search for Him for the rest of Her days, Her heart filled with pain, fearing every moment for His life, knowing that He was being persecuted and threatened;

  "Thy will he done,"

  even when, finding Him in the crowd, She was unable to draw near Him;

  "Thy will he done,"

  even when She asked someone to tell Him that She was there and the son sent back the response, "My mother and my brothers are those who are here with me";

  "Thy will be done,"

  even when at the end, after everyone had fled, only She, another woman, and one of them stood at the foot of the cross, bearing the laughter of His enemies and the cowardice of His friends;

  "Thy will be done."

  Thy will be done, my Lord. Because you know the weakness in the heart of your children, and you assign each of them only the burden they can bear. May you understand my love—because it is the only thing I have that is really mine, the only thing that I will be able to take with me into the next life. Please allow it to be courageous and pure; please make it capable of surviving the snares of the world.

  The organ stopped, and the sun went into hiding behind the mountains—as if both were ruled by the same Hand. The music had been his prayer, and his prayer had been heard. I opened my eyes and found the church in complete darkness, except for the solitary candle that illuminated the image of the Virgin.

  I heard his footsteps again, returning to where I sat. The light of that single candle gleamed on my tears, and my smile—a smile that wasn't perhaps as beautiful as the Virgins—showed that my heart was alive.

  He looked at me, and I at him. My hand reached out for his and found it. Now it was his heart that was beating faster—I could almost hear it in the silence.

  But my soul was serene, and my heart at peace.

  I held his hand, and he embraced me. We stood there at the feet of the Virgin for I don't know how long. Time had stopped.

  She looked down at us. The adolescent girl who had said "yes" to her destiny. The woman who had agreed to carry the son of God in Her womb and the love of God in Her heart. She understood.

  I didn't want to ask for anything. That afternoon in the church had made the entire journey worthwhile. Those four days with him had made up for an entire year in which so little had happened.

  We left the church hand in hand and walked back toward our room. My head was spinning—seminary, Great Mother, the meeting he had later that night.

  I realized then that we both wanted to unite our souls under one destiny—but the seminary and Zaragoza stood in the way. My heart felt squeezed. I looked around at the medieval homes and the well where we had sat the previous night. I recalled the silence and the sadness of the Other, the woman I had once been.

  God, I am trying to recover my faith. Please don't abandon me in the middle of this adventure, I prayed, pushing my fears aside.

  He slept a little, but I stayed awake, looking out the darkened window. Later, we got up and dined with the family—they never spoke at the table. He asked for a key to the house.

  "We'll be home late tonight," he said to the woman.

  "Young people should enjoy themselves," she answered, "and take advantage of the holidays as best they can."

  "I have to ask you something," I said, when we were back in the car. "I've been trying to avoid it, but I have to ask."

  "The seminary," he said.

  That's right. I don't understand. Even though it's no longer important, I thought.

  "I have always loved you," he began. "I kept the medal, thinking that someday I would give it to you and that I'd have the courage to tell you that I love you. Every road I traveled led back to you. I wrote the letters to you and opened every letter of yours afraid that you would tell me you had found someone.

  "Then I was called to the spiritual life. Or rather, I accepted the call, because it had been with me since childhood—just as it was for you. I discovered that God was extremely important to my life and that I couldn't be happy if I didn't accept my vocation. The face of Christ was there in the face of every poor soul I met on my travels, and I couldn't deny it."

  He paused, and I decided not to push him.

  Twenty minutes later, he stopped the car and we got out.

  "This is Lourdes," he said. "You should see it during the summer."

  What I saw now were deserted streets, closed shops, and hotels with bars across their entrances.

  "Six million people come here in the summer," he went on enthusiastically.

  "It looks like a ghost town to me."

  We crossed a bridge and arrived at an enormous iron gate with angels on either side. One side of the gate was standing open, and we passed through it.

  "Go on with what you were saying," I said, in spite of my decision not to pursue it. "Tell me about the face of Christ on the people you met."

  I could see that he didn't want to continue the conversation. Perhaps this wasn't the right time or place. But having begun, he had to complete it.

  We were walking down a broad avenue, bordered on bot
h sides by snow-covered fields. At its end, I could see the silhouette of a cathedral.

  "Go on," I repeated.

  "You already know. I entered the seminary. During the first year, I asked that God help me to transform my love for you into a love for all people. In the second year, I sensed that God had heard me. By the third year, even though my longing for you was still strong, I became certain that my love was turning toward charity, prayer, and helping the needy."

  "Then why did you seek me out? Why rekindle the flame in me? Why did you tell me about the exercise of the Other and force me to see how shallow my life is?" I sounded confused and tremulous. From one minute to the next, I could see him drawing closer to the seminary and further from me. "Why did you come back? Why wait until today to tell me this story, when you can see that I am beginning to love you?"

  He did not answer immediately. Then he said, "You'll think it's stupid."

  "I won't. I'm not worried anymore about seeming ridiculous. You've taught me that."

  "Two months ago, my superior asked me to accompany him to the house of a woman who had died and left all her wealth to the seminary. She lived in Saint-Savin, and my superior had to prepare an inventory of what was there."

  We were approaching the cathedral at the end of the avenue. My intuition told me that as soon as we reached it, any conversation we were having would be interrupted.

  "Don't stop," I said. "I deserve an explanation."

  "I remember the moment I stepped into that house. The windows looked out on the Pyrenees, and the whole scene was filled with the brightness of the sun, intensified by the snow's glare. I began to make a list of the things in the house, but after just a few minutes, I had to stop.

  "I had discovered that the woman's taste was exactly the same as mine. She owned records that I would have purchased, the same music that I would have enjoyed listening to as I looked out on that beautiful landscape. Her bookshelves were filled with books I had already read and others that I would have loved to read. Looking at the furnishings, the paintings, and all her other possessions, I felt as if I had chosen them myself.