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.”
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.
The holy man from Assisi is standing in the tent, waiting for a message. His body was still sore from the beating, he and his companion received from the Sultan’s guards, when they first approached his camp. He is remembering the scenes he saw in the Crusader’s camp; scenes of anger and hate, directed at Muslims; scenes of loss and grieving for dead comrades. He felt the same emotions from the Sultan’s soldiers, only directed towards Christian soldiers. He wants to bring both sides together, by convincing the Sultan and his people to accept Christ.
the depths of the Great Depression, the Franciscans started a breadline; distributing sandwiches and coffee to men who had no jobs, and no homes
. The
They established a food pantry, and those in need contact them, and a grocery list is made up. The Franciscans and volunteers fill the orders and deliver them to the individuals’ apartments. Again, besides bringing groceries, the volunteers bring human contact, companionship; so that the shut-ins do not feel alone and abandoned.
Musings From St. Anthony's Walnut Tree 