Woody

Sunday was the first full day that I spent with my dad in a while. Our schedules (okay, my schedule) have made it a bit of a challenge lately to get together.

It's always interesting with my dad. I often know exactly what to expect, but sometimes he goes completely off the rails. Sunday was one of those days. He was totally and sufficiently drunk by 2pm.

However, this story is not about my trials and tribulations with my father and his love of alcohol. This is where I get to tell you how it contributed to one of the most beautiful San Francisco moments I've yet had.

In my dad's unyielding quest for Irish coffees around the City, we ended up at what he affectionately calls "The Gay Cowboy Bar." While not gay, my dad loves this place for it's cheap drinks, friendly service, outside patio, and the best pinball in the City.

We've been here together before, and everything my dad loves about it is everything I love too. So I tucked in and committed to making the most of a few cigarettes and conversation on the back patio.

While my dad played pinball, I met Woody.

I pointed out that he had dropped his cell phone and he laughed and said, "I'm a mess, aren't I?"

Woody was anything but a mess. He was gorgeous, with long disheveled hair, a beard, and surprisingly un-ironic Mission hipster garb.

He sat down next to me and we began one of the most intense 10 minute conversations I've ever had. Of course it began with me asking how long he had been in the City.

"2 years. I'm just now coming out of a long period of solitude after being a man about town for the first year I was here. I've chosen a lot of solitude in my life."

"I choose it too." I responded.

"I'd like to tell you a story. Do you have the time?"

I looked over my shoulder at my dad who was engrossed in his game. "Yeah, I've got the time."

"How cool is it that your dad brings you to a gay bar? If my dad was still alive, I would bring him here too."

"He does keep it interesting. Absolutely." I smiled wistfully.

He lights my cigarette and then lights his own. "Do you know the prayer of St. Francis?"

"No. I've never heard it."

"Ready?

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life"

My eyes welled up. It was as if he was speaking directly to all of those things that I have chosen to live for and through...my intention to be an honest and good person, through which I may make a difference in the world. 

"A few years ago I was in Paris for 6 months and I was working through a lot. I was alone and sad all the time. What was strange is that I was kind of enjoying it. Just being in that perfect lonely place where I could feel everything without consequence. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." I knew.

"Anyway, my best friend made me a mix CD. No labels or song titles or anything, and it was totally unnecessary because he knew me well enough to have created the perfect soundtrack for that time I was living in."

I nod.

"I listened to the CD over and over and over. The first song was from Sarah McLachlan. I had never heard it before, and the lyrics were so beautiful. So incredibly beautiful. I wrote them down on a piece of paper and carried it with me for the next year. Until I got to the City, in fact.

Do you know there's a monastery across from Dolores Park?"

No I didn't, I tell him.

"My friend was staying there, you know, becoming a Franciscan monk. I went to visit him one day and as I walking through the halls, guess what I saw?

"The words to the song that you had been carrying in your pocket."

"Sarah was singing the prayer to St. Francis and I had no idea until I was in a monastery and could see it for myself."

I shivered with a chill of delight.

"Look it up on YouTube. Seriously. It's amazing." Woody said earnestly.

"I have a St. Francis story too."

Woody's eyes began to sparkle. "You do? I want to hear it."

"Okay." I bit my lip, remembering instantly the experience behind my story, and everything I felt. "I was traveling in Italy and took a day trip to Assisi. It was one of the loneliest days of my journey. The fact that my loved ones were so many miles away felt huge that day, and the sadness I felt over my mom's death was suffocating.

After I got off the bus, I immediately began to make my way to the Basilica di San Francesco. The closer I got to the church, the more people there were walking in the same direction as me. And as it came into view, the streets were full of people making the same pilgrimage I was.

I took my own tour around the grounds and marveld at all of the fresco and architecture, and then I saw a sign pointing down to San Francesco's tomb. I walked down this ancient staircase and found myself in this small cave-like room lit only with candles. The tomb was circular, and I walked around it, noticing the pictures of loved and lost ones that people had placed along the walls of his resting place.

I then sat down in the pews and had this huge emotional release. The sadness I felt was unbearable. I allowed myself to feel the regret and pain and loss that I had been avoiding and sobbed. And suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, it's strength and warmth permeating my grief and yet allowing it to continue. Does that make sense?"

Woody nodded silently.

"It held on, and I continued to cry without immediately looking over my shoulder. I eventually saw that it was a nun. And as soon as I noticed her, she was gone...but not without giving me the slightest reassuring squeeze before she left.

I sat in silence for a while longer, contemplative and spent. I looked up and saw that a large group of people had entered the room and surrounded the tomb. As I watched curiously, they all dropped to their knees in unison and began to sing in a language I did not understand."

"Do you think it was the Prayer?" Woody asked, eyes shimmering.

"I wasn't sure until today. After talking to you, I know now that it was."

Our conversation ended a few minutes later with a huge hug.

"Thank you for giving me a beautiful San Francisco moment."

"Thank you, Woody."

 *****
As Woody requested, I looked up Sarah singing the Prayer of St. Francis, and here it is...as beautiful as he said it was.