Visit of the Senpecta

Christmas is a time of great joy, but it can also be a painful time for the sick, wounded or lonely. In his exclusive short story for the DOOR, Graham Choldcroft conjures up mystery and, perhaps, a gentle reminder to look out for friends in need over the festive period. Illustrations are the original artwork by Patricia Drew

Whistling softly ‘It came upon a midnight clear’, Tom fumbled clumsily to lock the church door. Everywhere was in darkness; clergy, choristers and congregation long gone, and Tom was the last to leave, now he had finished tidying away the piles of abandoned music from the carol service.

He wasn’t particularly fastidious; he simply didn’t want to be confronted with untidy heaps of music waiting to be filed on Christmas morning. And he had no particular reason to rush home; no-one waiting for him, no meal ready on the table. Anyway, wasn’t it part of his job as organist - ‘servant leadership,’ and all that?

As he withdrew the key from the lock he became aware of someone behind him and, turning round saw a ‘hoodie’ silhouetted against the moonlight. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he realised the stranger’s garment reached to the floor like a monk’s robe.

‘Good evening Tom,’ said the stranger. His voice, one of quiet authority, belied the years his diminutive stature implied. Tom felt intrigued rather than intimidated.

‘I like that carol; good tune, isn’t it?’ the stranger said. Engaged now in one of his passions, Tom dismissed his surprise that the stranger knew his name. After all, plenty of people knew he was the organist, and he was often addressed by name by people he didn’t know.

Tom the Doubter who, his mother teased, was ‘always asking questions’, had long since given way to Tom the Assumptive – forever making assumptions and taking for granted.

‘Some people think it’s a bit twee,’ Tom replied, ‘But I like it. I like the pathos … “man at war with man, not hearing the love song of the good news.”’

The stranger sat down, and Tom instinctively accepted the unspoken invitation to join him. ‘I don’t think I know you,’ he said, ‘Are you from these parts?’

‘Used to be,’ came the reply, ‘Call me John.’

John’s tendency to avert his eyes downward in the silences, which had seemed furtive at first, now gave him the air of a truly humble man.

After a pause, he asked another question: ‘What about verse four?’

Startled for a moment, Tom snapped: ‘What about it?’. Then added: ‘I like it. Were you there? What do you think?’

He sensed John smile in the dark as he answered: ‘No, but I heard about it.’

Tom thought what he must have heard was the contretemps between him and the vicar, when Tom had made his stand for  the inclusion of verse four.

He said now: ‘I know I was less than gracious, but it was ‘important to me. Every year we miss it out, with excuses like “it’s not in the carol book”, or “it’s not in the carol sheet”, or even “it’s too personal”.

‘Well of course it’s personal – it’s meant to be. The gospel message is personal, for Heaven’s sake’!  After a pause, and not knowing why but feeling selfish, he added ‘Anyway, it speaks to me’.

The man probed gently: “Why?”

‘Because….’ His voice trailed off. Tom took a deep breath, sighed, and tried again; ‘Because sometimes life’s load crushes – even at Christmas. No, especially at Christmas. We’re all supposed to be jolly and upbeat, even when we don’t feel jolly and upbeat.

‘I’ve been a widower for 10 years, and it might as well be 10 minutes. I miss her, I miss seeing the warmth of her smile, hearing the warmth of her laugh, feeling the warmth of her touch’. Tom ranted on like this for several minutes before letting out a gasping sob and falling silent.

‘But you still have the warmth of her love in your heart, with sweet memories of her smile and laugh, don’t you?’ the monk responded gently, more by way of comment than question.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom, ’I guess I got a bit emotional with the vicar as well. I know I got angry with him. Too personal? And why not! What did he think it was all about? That’s when he relented and said OK, this year it’s in.’

After another pause Tom became aware of a gentle humming alongside him, and the monk sang quietly: ‘…O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.’

‘Do you hear the angels sing, Tom? As you rest, do you hear them sing?’ he asked.  Both men fell silent again, and Tom closed his eyes.

 ‘I do believe I do,’ he exclaimed softly, ‘I do believe I do.’

When he opened his eyes he found he was alone once more. His companion had gone as quietly as he arrived, closing the gate noiselessly behind him.

On Christmas morning Tom apologised to the vicar for his ill-tempered remarks, an apology accepted with little more than a murmur. For a moment Tom thought he glimpsed a downward glance akin to the monk’s and felt compelled to relate the encounter.

‘Funny thing is,’ he concluded, ‘I’ve never seen him before.  Do you know him?’

‘Sounds like Brother John,’ commented the cleric. ‘There was a monastic community in these parts centuries ago. Indeed our church is the site of their chapel. Then Henry VIII’s soldiers arrived.

‘Legend has it that one of the seniors, Brother John, so named because of his gift with the word, returning from counselling an errant brother, watched in horror from the edge of the woods at the destruction of his home and the slaughter of his brethren. Then the soldiers saw him and pursued him into the woods.

‘No-one knows what happened to him, but sightings have been reported down the years of a monk standing at the edge of the woods, looking this way. And occasionally people have told of encounters with one of the senpectae.’

‘But I don’t believe in ghosts!’ exclaimed Tom.

‘Ah, but you do believe in angels Tom…?’ countered his friend.

Story by Graham Choldcroft
Illustrations are the original artwork by Patricia Drew

Are you a budding author of short stories? Have you got a fictional Christmas story to tell?
If you would like your story to be considered for the DOOR’s Christmas issue next year email it to the Editor.

Inspirational angels

Graham’s first source of inspiration was the often optional, and sometimes unprinted, verse four of the lovely carol ‘It came upon a midnight clear’ by E H Sears (see below).

Graham also looked to the Rule of St Benedict, Chapter 27, which states: ‘The abbot must exercise the utmost care and concern for wayward brothers, because it is not the healthy who need a physician, but the sick. Therefore he ought to use every skill of a wise physician and send in Senpectae, that is, mature and wise brothers who, under the cloak of secrecy, may support the wavering brother, urge him to be humble as a way of making satisfaction, and console him lest he be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow’.

Verse four of ‘It came upon a midnight clear’

‘And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! For glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing.’