A thin column of bluish smoke rose at the edge of the forest, not far from the hermitage. It rose lightly, straight, undisturbed by the slightest wind. Calm and as upright as the tall trees, it seemed to be part of the landscape and yet it puzzled Brother Leo. This smoke was unusual. Who would have thought to light a fire so early in the morning? Leo wanted to find out. He went forward, parted the branches of the bushes, and saw, a stone's throw away, Francis standing next to a poor fire.

What on earth could he be burning? He saw him bend down, pick up a pinecone, and throw it into the flames. León hesitated for a moment and then slowly drew closer. "What are you burning there, Father?"

“A basket,” Francisco replied simply. León looked more closely. He made out the remains of a wicker basket that had just been burned.

It's not the basket you were making these days, is it?

"Yes, the same one," Francisco replied.

"And why did you burn it? Didn't you like how it turned out?" asked León, astonished.

"Well yes, it looked very good. Almost too good," replied Francisco.

But then, why did you burn it?

"Because just a moment ago, while we were praying terce, I was so distracted that it took up all my attention. It was only right that, as a reward, I should sacrifice it to the Lord," explained Francisco.

León was left speechless. No matter how hard he tried to understand Francisco, his reactions always surprised him. This time Francisco's gesture seemed to him excessively severe. "Father, I do not understand you. If we had to burn everything that distracts us during prayer, it would never end," León murmured after a moment of silence.

Francisco did not answer anything. "Did you know," León added, "that Brother Silvestre was counting on this basket? He needed it and was waiting for it impatiently."

"Yes, I already know," replied Francisco, "and I will make him another one right away, but it was necessary to burn this one. This was more urgent."

The basket had finished burning. Francis extinguished what remained of the fire with a stone and, taking Leon by the arm, said to him, "Come, I am going to tell you why I acted this way." He led him a little further on, next to a clump of willows, cut quite a number of flexible rods, and then, sitting on the ground, began another basket. Leon had sat down beside him, waiting for his father's explanation.

"I want to work with my hands," Francis declared then, "and I want all my brothers to work as well. Not out of a greedy desire to earn money, but for the good example and to avoid idleness. Nothing is more regrettable than a community where no one works, but work is not everything, Brother Leo; it does not solve everything. Work can even be a terrible obstacle to true freedom for man. This happens whenever man becomes so absorbed in his work that he forgets to worship the living and true God. That is why we must watch carefully to keep the spirit of prayer alive within us, which is the most important thing of all.

"I understand, Father," said Leon, "but we are not going to destroy our work every time we get distracted in prayer." "Of course," said Francis, "the important thing is to be ready to make this sacrifice to the Lord. Only under this condition does man keep his soul available. In the old law, men sacrificed to the Lord the first fruits of their crops and their flocks. They did not hesitate to give up the most beautiful things they had. It was a gesture of worship, but also of liberation. In this way, man kept his soul open and free. What he sacrificed broadened his horizon to infinity. In this was the secret of his freedom and his greatness."

Francisco fell silent. All his attention then seemed to focus on his work, but León at his side saw that he still had something left to say, something essential that needed to become part of him and that was hard for him to express. León knew this, which is why those moments of silence seemed so long to him. He would have liked to speak, to say a word to fill that silence, but he kept quiet out of discretion.

Suddenly, Francis turned his face toward him and looked at him with an expression of great kindness. "Yes, Brother Leo," he said very calmly, "a man is not great until he rises above his work so that he sees nothing but God. Only then does he reach his full stature. But this is difficult, very difficult. Burning a wicker basket that one has made oneself is nothing, you see, even if it is very well made, but detaching oneself from the work of an entire lifetime is something very different. That renunciation is beyond human strength."

To follow a calling from God, a person dedicates himself wholly to a work. He does it passionately and with enthusiasm, which is good and necessary. Only enthusiasm is creative. But to create something is also to mark it with one’s own seal, to make it inevitably one’s own. Then, the servant of God faces his greatest danger. This work he has done, to the extent he becomes attached to it, becomes for him the center of the world; it places him in a state of radical unavailability, and it will take a breaking away to remove him from it. Thanks to God, this breaking away can happen, but the providential means set in motion at that time are formidable. They are misunderstanding, contradiction, suffering, failure, and sometimes even God allows sin itself. The life of faith then undergoes its deepest and most decisive crisis.

This inevitable crisis arises sooner or later in every state of life. The man has devoted himself fully to his work and believed he was giving glory to God through his generosity. Suddenly, God seems to abandon him and show no interest in what he is doing. Furthermore, God seems to demand that he even give up his work and relinquish what he has dedicated himself to, body and soul, for so many years, with joy and with much effort. Take your son, your only one, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah and offer him to me as a holocaust.

This terrible word spoken by God to Abraham is heard at some point by every true servant of God. Abraham had believed in the promise God made to him to give him descendants. He had waited for its fulfillment for twenty years. He had not despaired. And when at last the child upon whom the promise rested arrived, then God required Abraham to sacrifice him. Without any explanation. The blow was harsh and incomprehensible.

Well then, that is exactly what God also asks of us, one day or another. It seems that God and man do not speak the same language. A misunderstanding has arisen. God had called and man had answered. Now man calls, but God remains silent. It is a tragic moment in which religious life borders on despair, in which man fights completely alone in the night with the ungraspable.

He has believed that it would be enough to do this or that to be pleasing to God, but it is he himself who is required. Man is never saved by his works, no matter how good they may be. He himself, he himself, must become a work of God. He must become more pliable and more humble in the hands of his creator than clay in the hands of the potter. He must become more flexible and more patient than the willow in the fingers of the one who makes baskets. And he must become poorer and more abandoned than dead wood in the forest in the very heart of winter.

Only from this state of abandonment and in this confession of poverty can the person offer God unlimited trust, entrusting to Him the total initiative in his existence and in his salvation. And then he enters into a holy obedience. He becomes a child and plays the divine game of creation. Beyond pain and joy, he arrives at the knowledge of gladness and power. He can look with a heart equally at the sun and at death, with the same seriousness and with the same joy.

León fell silent. He no longer felt like asking questions. He did not understand everything Francisco was saying, but he felt as if he had never seen so clearly and deeply into his father's soul. What impressed him most was the calm with which Francisco spoke of such serious matters, things he must surely have known from experience. He remembered what Francisco had told him another time: a man truly knows only what he experiences. He was sure that Francisco had experienced what he said, because he spoke with such truth that León suddenly felt full of gentleness and awe as he realized he was the privileged confidant of such a unique experience. Meanwhile, Francisco continued his work, and his hand wove the wicker without trembling, as if playing. Hail Mary Linares.

Father Alfonso Gálvez