Father Wagner tried to hold the gun level, so the bullet would exit his left temple, as the life and death battle raged within him. He felt a tremor ripple through his forearm and wrist, and then a full-blown spasm in his hand that almost caused him to drop the gun. His arm felt heavy. Spittle gathered at his lips as he whimpered. He cried aloud, wild with fear, as he finally pulled the trigger and the hammer of the gun slapped down with a click.
No deafening noise. No pain. He closed his eyes tight and held the nose of the revolver tighter against his temple and screamed as he pulled the trigger again. Click. Nothing.
He moaned, then barely winced as he pulled the trigger robotically, again and again, with the same results. Click. Click. Click. Click. He was sweating profusely, drained and numb with confusion. He dropped the pistol and it landed with a muffled thud on the carpeted floor. Drenched in his own tears and sweat, but not in his own blood, he held his head in both hands and sobbed. Frustration, grief, and relief all tore at him from different directions. He was a fraud, such a coward and utter failure that he couldn’t even kill himself.
Tremors wracked his body and he shook violently. He looked up as if to the heavens, for the first time in years, his face contorting to a mask of pure anger. In a quavering, breaking voice he screamed, “What is your will? What would you have me do?”
His chest heaved in and out and he struggled for air as he waited for a response he was sure would not come. It was quiet then, with only his labored breathing breaking the stillness. He waited, and when he was certain no answer was coming, his eyes fell upon the parish calendar on the wall above his desk. It was open to December. On the page above the dates was a large colored print of the nativity scene; the baby Jesus in a manger surrounded by Mary, Joseph, the wise men, and shepherds. A radiant light shown through the clouds above and spotlighted the infant. As Wagner looked through watery eyes at the print, he wanted to believe in the birth and the rebirth that the scene promised. New life for the world and for himself. At that moment a loud pop came from the fireplace, trapped steam escaping from a burning log. And the room began to brighten. A stream of light came through a crack in the closed drapes and fell on the calendar, bathing the baby Jesus and his followers in a soft, sweet radiance.
An immense weight lifted off the priest then, and a lightness descended upon him. Maybe it was from above or maybe from within. It didn’t matter. Either way, he felt more like that kid again on those Christmas Eves long ago, snuggled in a sleeping bag under the stars with his dad, marveling at the majesty of the heavens above. “Father,” he said, invoking the name of his dad and of his Lord and Master at the same time, “forgive me. I love you. Thy will be done.”
He got out of the chair and retrieved the gun. He took out the shells one by one and dropped them in the bottom desk drawer along with the gun. If the Lord had not prevented the gun from firing, he would not have been given this chance at redemption. He thanked Him for His grace.
Father Wagner would have done well to also thank Deputy Hubbard, whose uneasiness had caused him to remove the gun’s firing pin before loaning it to the priest.