He has told you, child, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

—Micah 6:8

Helder lived alone now, a quiet life. Not sparse exactly, for he was curious about many things but simple. His one-room Kentucky-style cabin mirrored his character, like well-worn hiking boots reveal the person. He had moved here full-time when Claire went her way, wanting no more than to rest in the Spirit and to enlarge himself in anticipation of his nearby union.

The south wall he built of timber and glass so that he could grow plants of many kinds year-round, including a ‘Crown-of-Thornes’, of which he was especially pleased. A fly-tying vise fixed to the table on the porch, which ran the full width of the West side of the cabin, fly rods leaning in the corner, a backpack hanging on the coat hook, an easel and side table with brushes and pencils, and tubes of paint scattered about, a camera with various lenses, and most of the north wall was books, his ‘lending library’—the wisdom of which, he said, over the years, showed him who he was.

We drank thick black coffee and sometimes shared biscotti that I brought on morning visits—which he preferred, a morning person—in comfy chairs by the wood stove on chill mornings, and red wine with Tillamook cheddar and saltines when I stayed into the evening or when I stayed until morning, at a table in the kitchen nook ordained by books, a notebook, and pencils. Known by a few as a watercolor artist—his work gracing his rustic walls, and many on my own walls in the end, in evidence—he loved gardening, especially heritage tomatoes, yum; and writing because he loved the metaphors each word is, or words are; digital photography (he had a collection of vintage lenses shared with him by his good friend Kyle); carpentry; out in the shed (he had tools enough to build most anything); fly-fishing (for the solitude); and long walks in the desert or the deep woods when the pain in his occasionally bursitis hips allowed.

I never knew him to watch a video for entertainment or even —although I know he enjoyed it—to listen to music. He explained that Her voice was far more enjoyable to him, and as he got older and since Claire was gone, he found other voices distracting. When I visited, he was often sitting on the porch, apparently doing nothing, listening and enjoying Her company. I have to say, I lament we have so few elders. He was the only mystic I ever met.

• • •

Father Helder was awakened by the Spirit many nights exactly at midnight (because it was quiet and he was not distracted) to spend some time with Her. Mostly, it seemed to him, Her intent was simply togetherness. Friendship. Although there were times when She had more of an agenda, something She needed him to know or to understand. At these times, she spoke to him noetically, he receiving knowledge, help, or hope not by way of hearing or intellect. She sometimes bypassed his mind, speaking directly to his true self. The only part of him created in her image. The only self She had a relationship with. As he pointed out, She is far more capable of communicating Her desire, passion, and intentions than Her creatures are.