He asked her to tell him a story

He asked her to tell him a story, and this is what she said. Her father had been a missionary in Central Africa, some war torn country whose name had now been wiped clean from the map. Her father had been working there for years, converting the local tribesmen to a branch of Christianity called the Brotherhood of Christ or something, putting in years learning the local dialect, translating the entire Bible into a working copy of their language, learning their customs, really, himself becoming more a part of the village than a part of the world that he’d come from.

And after years of putting in work and converting a good number of the tribesmen to a working version of Christianity he felt satisfied, content, certain that the work that he had done would be pleasing in the sight of the Lord. In the mornings he wandered down to the lazy dun colored river, overhung by thick swaths of trees, and frequented not only by the villagers but by various animals that you’d find in a typical African body of water, crocs, hippos, etc.

And, on this particular morning, her father remembered the sun as a ball of red steel, burning through the dusty air, burning through the women shaking bits of dust from blankets on the stream side, burning the already dry and cracked ground, and everyone from the village was at or near the water that day. The same water where he’d baptized a good number of the villagers. His particular branch dividiens, didn’t believe in infant baptism, but they were full believers in full immersion and not the sprinkling of water that had been passed down into a number of Protestant churches. And so, the dun colored river, Heraclitus be damned, really was more than just a river, but a seat of holiness, God made manifest in the world, a living example of the goodness of his creation.

And her father was walking by the river watching the children playing, and he looked down at a woman that he’d converted within two years, the very first woman, a woman with a beautiful and quick smile, dimples on her cheeks, washing her clothes in the river and humming to herself a spiritual hymn that he’d taught her, a simple hymn praising the sun rising in the morning. And really, that’s how he’d taught them in the beginning, by using the example of Saint Patrick, pointing to the elegant light falling in arcs upon the river, of the plants that grew so profusely along the banks of the river, of the tattered clouds in the limitless blue sky. Truly, and he meant this, this was the most beautiful place that he’d ever been during his time on earth, which is to say, he played to their vanity. What man, when told he is beautiful, denies it? Only the wise man and there are very few. In fairness, this particular village set on the water really was quite a treasure, like a diamond inlaid in white gold and the people generally a happy and agreeable sort.