The French EMT helps load another stretcher into the ambulance, and shuts its doors as it takes off. She wearily turns around and looks down the street of tragedy; lined with the injured, and the dead. Just a little while ago it was full of people, celebrating the founding of a republic, celebrating Bastille Day. Then tragedy struck in this city of Nice; one maniac in a truck, mowing the people down. Now, there is fear, agony, and grief. And her heart is screaming: “Where are You in all of this?”
She closes her eyes for second. When she opens them, she is looking at the curbside. She notices for the first time, a little friar, dressed in a patched brown habit. He is holding the hand of an injured child, singing a French ditty for her.
The sound of sobbing draws her attention to two women, kneeling over a covered body. One of them is bent over with grief; the other has her arm around the grieving woman’s shoulders, holding her tight. This woman looks like she is from the Middle East. She is wearing a long blue veil; her face looks as if she has known much sorrow in her life, and now she is comforting another woman through hers.
The EMT looks further down the street of tragedy and saw a police officer standing guard. He nervously stares out into night, holding his rifle tight. The EMT blinks her eyes, because she could swear there was a girl standing next to him. She is dressed like a French peasant, with short-cropped hair. Her hand is gripping the officer’s shoulder, as with fierce eyes, she also stares into night with him. Is that a sword in her other hand?
Movement next to her drew the EMT’s attention. She stares at her medical bag, and sees that someone has placed a red rose in it. She looks quickly behind her and thinks she sees a nun, a Carmelite nun, disappearing into the crowds. She turns around again, but the people she saw, the friar, the woman in blue, the peasant girl, have also disappeared. She looks down to her bag, the rose is real. As she looks at it; she suddenly no longer feels so alone. She grabs her medical bag, takes a deep breath, and walks back down the street of tragedy.
“Blessed be God in His Angels and in His Saints.”
If we were having coffee, I would tell you how sadden I have been about the news of the police shootings and killing of two black men, and then the shootings of 11 police officers in Dallas, TX; resulting in deaths of five officers. There is an air of unease in the country right now; the black communities distrust and fear their police forces; the police feel threatened by the very people they have sworn to protect and serve. And there are politicians, who with their rhetoric are fanning the flames. Communities are becoming divided, hunkering down in their own enclaves, with no interest in dialogue.
If we were sharing a cup of coffee, I would tell you that my wife and I are on Cape Cod this weekend. We are visiting her parents, and celebrating Father’s Day. The weather is beautiful; cool sea breezes, blue skies and bright sunlight. It is a nice break, a nice change of scenery for a bit. And it is a little respite from the feelings that I still have concerning the tragedy in Orlando, FL My in-laws do not have their TV on much, so I have been out of touch with the world. It is a nice break, but only a temporary one. We still have to reflect on, pray over, and act on the events of that terrible night.
Over a cup of coffee, I would tell that many years ago, when I was a young seminarian, I spent a couple of summers in an ecumenical program, called 
The Franciscan blogosphere is buzzing with the 
The farmhand walks through the Italian woods, heading for home. His body aches from his labors; his heart aches because he will barely feed his family with what he earned today. In the twilight, he is passing by an abandoned farmhouse, when he hears the sound of chanting, coming from it. He peers in, and sees a group of men, dressed in brown robes, kneeling on the dirt floor. They circle a little thin man, who is leading them in prayer. The farmhand sees a glow of light emanating from him, touching the others, touching him. He experiences great peace.
If we were having a second cup of coffee, I would tell about this Sunday being an important day in the life of the Catholic Church. It is Pentecost Sunday, fifty days after Easter, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles, Mother Mary, and the other disciples: “Tongues as of fire appeared, which parted and came to rest on each of them. All were filled with the Holy Spirit. They began to express themselves in foreign tongues and make bold proclamation as the Spirit prompted them.” (Acts 2:3-4) We celebrate the day when the Apostles went out and boldly announced to the world the Good News of Jesus Christ.
