By Their Fruits

The sharp point of my spade stabbed deep into the moist earth. Turning it over revealed a writhing mass of worms and other grubs retreating deeper into the garden soil. I wiped the sweat from my brow as I toiled in the monastery’s orchard. My heavy brown robes made me hot. I thanked the Lord for the shade of the nearest apple tree.

There were five apple trees here on the east side of the orchard. They had been planted personally by Father Efren when he was a younger man. None of them had borne any good fruit for as long as I could remember. On occasion, one of the brothers would suggest that they be uprooted and replaced, but Father Efren would not allow it. The trees held some personal significance to him.

As I stood quietly resting from my work while I thought about these trees, another monk came running towards me.

“Brother Incenio!” The monk cried as he approached.

“What is it, Brother Humberto?” I asked.

“Father Efren has collapsed!” Worry showed clearly on the devoted young man’s face. I had expected this sooner or later. Father Efren was very old, and age had overtaken him in many ways during the past year. It was still a shock, however. It was like an inevitable truth that one desires to postpone as long as possible.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He is being moved to his bed as we speak.”

Dropping my spade, I ran with Brother Humberto back to the door of the monastery and straight to Father Efren’s chamber. There, the other six brothers who lived in the monastery loomed over the bed where the old man lay.

“Let’s give him some air.” I said, gently pulling them away. I could finally get a good look at the old man. His face was lined with many years of age and worry. His eyes were only half open now as he gazed at the foot of his bed. His breathing was strained and irregular. I could tell that he had little life left in him. I guided the brothers to do what little we could for him and then lead them in prayer over him for the rest of the morning. As the afternoon approached, I instructed the other men to return to their chores. I continued by Father Efren’s side late into the evening, praying constantly.

Finally, the old man stirred in his bed. His eyelids fluttered open and he inhaled deeply before coughing. His whole frame shook violently. I gently put a hand on his arm to comfort him. His dull eyes struggled to find my face in the dim light.

“It is I, Brother Incenio, Father Efren.” I spoke comfortingly. He struggled to speak, but his voice was inaudible. I watched his lips form the word ‘book’. Looking around, I found his Bible on a stand next to his bed and tried to hand it to him, but he shook his head slightly and waved it away. Puzzled, I looked back to where the Bible had lain. On the same stand was another book, much thinner, but likewise bound in tattered leather. I offered this one to Father Efren. He nodded in the affirmative but didn’t accept the book. Instead he struggled to speak again, but again no voice came. He mouthed the word ‘read’.

I found it curious that this devout man would want me to read anything other than the Bible to him in his last hours, but I graciously complied by opening the front cover of the curious volume.

“Confessions of Father Efren” I read the title aloud. The old man made a deep gurgling sound in his throat and shook his head in protest. His reaction alarmed me, and I feared he was very literally at death’s doorstep. He made a gesture with his hand, closing his thumb against his fingers in a motion I had often seen him use to demand silence. He wanted me to read the book, but not out loud. My mind was spinning with apprehension. Why, in his last hours, did Father Efren want me to read his confessions? What did this pious man have to confess? The old man’s eyes looked at me pleadingly, and so, with much uncertainty I began reading quietly to myself.