Alan Vaughn and his wife, Janet, got into a car accident. Janet dies in the crash, and Alan is in a coma. When he awakens, he believes God wishes for him to carve a work of art. Alan starts the project with unfamiliar tools and skills, enduring pain from his crash injuries. Alan finishes his artwork, which inspires deep devotion in others, and he loses his faith. Those who want more of his work, and reporters who are looking to tell his story, pursue Alan. Alan distances himself from his art and begins a personal journey to find God again.
When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that
he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited
him, or when he came to our home for the weekend, I took him to our church.
When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the
church.
Dad was the spiritual leader of our family. My parents would
bring their six children to Our Lady of the Assumption each Sunday, as it was
their duty to do so. I modeled my belief in God after theirs: stoic,
unquestioned, and rooted in the rites and traditions of holy days and holidays.
In my teenage years, I rebelled and questioned my belief in God as only an
insolent seventeen-year-old could. It was natural to me that if I were to
challenge my parents, I too would turn from the Lord as the ultimate affront to
my mother and father and their beliefs.
As a parent, I made sure that my kids each received their
sacraments, and that made my father happy, as he was glad that we at least gave
our children a chance to find their own faith. After my mother died, I would
take my father to the five o’clock mass each Saturday when he came to stay with
us. During this period, I learned that my father’s belief in God was not some
habit drilled into him as a boy while attending catholic school. His conviction
struck him during WWII on a battlefield in Italy when he had been shot and left
for dead. In a magical coincidence, he awoke as he was being administered last
rites by an army chaplain. He thought he had died, and when he looked at the
face of the man praying over him, clad in olive drab and holding a prayer book,
he recognized him to be a priest from back home. From then on, he knew deep
within his heart that he was alive, and that God willed it so.
There was no such calling for me. When I pray, it is as
though I am poking my head into a large, empty, darkened room and calling out
to no one. The only light is a sliver sneaking in from behind me. From time to
time, I check in to see if someone answered or if he left a note on the door
for me. But, right now there is nothing beyond that entrance except empty
space.
Maybe soon, during the next holiday season, as Christmas
music fills the shopping malls and the radio airwaves, I’ll rap on the door
again. Perhaps no one will answer, but I will keep returning. There will be an
answer one day when I call out. I have faith.
