One May 6^th in heaven, Anno was talking to God about his life. He recounted how it was on this day that, sitting in prison, the Lord had made known to him via the authorities that he would be sent to Dachau. And the Lord said, “Talk to me, and I will answer you and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.” So Anno kept speaking of that day, his memory bathed in the eternal light of glory. And then he asked, not with hesitation, but with the boldness of the New Testament: “Lord, I love you. Give me someone who will later see an intervention in their life on this day.”

But just then, little Văn was running by—as, with his childish sensibility, he was wont to do—and the Holy Innocents were trailing behind him, as were the souls of children who had died before baptism and before the age of reason that he had prayed for. He overheard the conversation Anno was having with the Lord God, and having more than enough gall to interrupt, he said, “Little Jesus”—and the Lord immediately appeared in the guise of his Nazarene childhood—“little Jesus, if you are going to give this to big brother Anno, I want to join in, too. Today, May 6^th, was for me not the day that I was told my fate, but the last day of my freedom. I was arrested tomorrow, so why don’t you give us both a present at the same time?”

Jesus looked about as pensive as an eight-year-old can, then replied: “Why not! Today will be born someone whose life is lived between freedom and constraint, because he was born on the last day that you were free, little Văn, and the first day that you knew your fate, dear Anno.”

“I’m not done yet,” said Văn.

“What is it, little brother?” asked little Jesus.

“Give him my name, so that he knows!”

Little Jesus laughed. “He is to be born in Canada to non-Catholic parents who don’t know a word of Vietnamese! How can he become known by your name?”

Văn was not so easily conquered. He had been matching wits with Jesus for decades.

“Well, then, the name of me—­and my sister.”

“Even more impossible!” said little Jesus. “If he cannot have a Vietnamese personal name, still less can he have a Vietnamese family name! I would give this to you, if it made any sense, but it does not.”

But Văn had won.

“Not my sisters who are still on earth. I mean Thérèse, my spiritual big sister and sister here in heaven.”

“And how, little Văn, do you and Thérèse have the same name? You don’t imagine earthly parents naming their child Apostle-of-Love, do you?”

“Don’t be silly, little Jesus. His name must be—and you just agreed to it—Benjamin. Thérèse’s family, especially her aunt, called her this. And this is my nickname from the damned presbytery.”

Anno gasped. “We don’t use that word here!”

“But it’s accurate,” said Văn.

Little Jesus just smiled. It was accurate enough. At any rate, more important was the decision to make.

“Granted—all of it, little Văn!”

And so it was. But of course the child never realized the connections until he had grown much, much older.

*

Time passed, but time did not yet reach the date of the child’s epiphany. Still, the child was no longer a child, and he had made his way to a place that should be safe and beautiful and full of truth and love—but in fact, it was dangerous and ugly and shot through with lies and indifference to human suffering. He still had unfounded hope about the place and was walking into a trap. Văn, without divine foresight but simply based on his experience of cultures of abuse, ran panting into Jesus’ presence—and behold! the divine appearance was suddenly that of the Nazarene boy—and blurted out, in the middle of what must have been a pleasurable intimacy between some other friends:

“Little Jesus, little Jesus! He is in danger! What are you doing? I beg you to give him a great grace, something extraordinary, that will save him from the impending doom! I don’t like to ask much”—here he was teasing, for he asked a lot all the time—“but this is October, and you gave me that great grace in October that caused me to run to Our Lady of Perpetual Help. And this boy here”—Văn spoke about everyone as if they were children in Nazareth with him and Jesus—“he’s in the chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Help right now. Right now, little Jesus! This is the moment. Save him from the future danger!”

Little Jesus was about to answer, but a dignified lover of silence, who had been giving his all to his Bridegroom when Văn barged in, got up from his posture of adoration and said, looking at Văn: “Look here, young man. Most people around here have forgotten me.”

“Who even are you?” asked Văn with a smirk.

“I’m Jan,” he said. “And I think your idea is a generous one, but you’ve left something out of it. I’m here right now, too, and I’d rather like to be a part of your scheme.”

“Brilliant!” shouted Văn.

Jan wasn’t one for shouting and jocularity, but he was still enjoying himself, too.

“Yes, it is. Lord Jesus,” said the mediaeval man from the Low Countries, “would you join me to this request? I think, judging by the consternation of this little one”—he had intuited that the appellation would appeal to Văn, who smiled—“what this young man on earth needs is a grace that reminds him of the touch in the centre of the soul. But you must make it impossible to deny and even more impossible to forget, so you will have to make it extraordinary in some way. I leave it up to you, Lord. You know, Lord, of the emphasis of the divine touch in my writings.”

“Yes, that’s just it!” said Văn. “Can it be, Lord? Please! He’s the boy born on my last day of freedom.”

“Very well,” said little Jesus.

The disaster struck, and when he could not escape, the boy born on the last day of Văn’s freedom and the first day of Anno’s fate also could not escape the power and memory of that great grace—and he survived.

But before that, the disaster had to strike. And even though Văn had run out of the presence of little Jesus—who, without Văn there, reverted to not being so little any more—Jan remained. He lingered a bit longer with his Bridegroom, and he pondered a moment. After some time, he said:

“Lord, no mortal will ever make the connections that we have just made. This little Văn is so obscure with his machinations. If you are going to teach this boy—I mean, this man—about the providence of his life through the calendar of saintly happenings, would it not be appropriate for you to draw out something a bit more obvious? My feast day is coming up, you know, at the start of December. Perhaps that would be a good day for this disaster to strike, if strike it will or must, for then there will be a more solid reference point, and my name has already been bonded to the intentions of this little Văn for this man.”

The Lord thought about this and was about to answer. Just then, another of the adorers of the Bridegroom—who, like Jan, had also written at length about him as a Bridegroom—stood and spoke up:

“My dear namesake,” he called Jan, for his own name was Juan. “You know that I copied you in many things, and these days everyone pays more attention to me than to you. Let’s team up again here on this matter. As you and I already know, your feast day is also the day that I was abducted by my confreres and put away in a place that I could not escape from, and then I was psychologically tortured for months. So let me join this little display of providence. Lord, does this young man that Jan and Văn speak of know me?”

“He knows you all,” said the Bridegroom. “He has but recently met Văn and Jan. He has loved you a long time, Juan.”

“I am honoured,” said Juan. “Then, Lord, why not join our intentions together?”

This time Jesus did not need any pause, because he had been looking forward to Juan’s request, and as there was no one else who needed to consider anything, there was no need for a momentary delay in the conversation.

“Of course, Juan; I will join them together. In fact, the young man does not know the exact calendar date of your abduction, but he does know all about the event. I will make his agony like unto yours—very much like it, more than he could imagine possible in his own modern world. And so, even if he doesn’t know the providence of the exact date, he will know that he has you with him at all times and that you love him and his condition very much. You will be the first one that he connects his life to. Only later will he understand the place of Văn and Jan, as well as Anno, who is off elsewhere today but who was part of Văn’s original plots and trickery. You, Juan, will be his first touchstone. Your abuse will be felt as like unto his, and he will love you and implore you. You must take care of him with Văn; he knows Văn’s story, and he is not one of those who will deny the place of abuse in it, so you and he must work together from now on, especially until he learns more about Jan and Anno to keep him grounded in you all.”

Juan was perplexed but accepted the commission.

“Now,” added the Bridegroom, “go and find Văn. You must track him down—I know it is hard, with all his running about; please do not get discouraged—and when you do find him, you must make plans with him. You are in this together.”

“Very well!” said Juan, who, like his spiritual daughter (and Văn’s spiritual sister) Thérèse, loved the Lord and wanted to spend heaven with him, but also helping others on earth. “I take my leave, my Bridegroom.” And he left.

*

Anno had never been able to let go of that strange moment all those decades ago, when that mischievous little Văn had barged into his conversation with the divine friend. He decided one day to ask the Lord about it.

“Ah, yes. His life has been between freedom and constraint for all these years, but he knows you, too,” said Jesus.

“He knows me!” exclaimed Anno. “That is extraordinary. I am not yet canonized. I am only beatified. He must be a Carmelite.”

“Oh no,” laughed Jesus. “No, he is not.”

“Oh, well, that is even more remarkable then.”

“He even writes about you on a blog and promotes your cause.”

“I am grateful,” said Anno. He paused. There was something he was pondering. “This constraint that you speak of, is it like Văn’s or like mine?”

“Thus far it has largely been like Văn’s, from before his arrest,” said Jesus.

“Oh, I am so sorry. Those wounds last forever. Wait, Lord, you said ‘thus far.’”

“Yes, dear Anno.”

“Do you mean to say this will change?”

“The old wounds cannot be eliminated,” said Jesus. “I still have mine in glory.” And he showed him his hands and his feet and especially the marks on his forehead, where the crown had pierced him.

“Yes, Lord, I understand. But what I mean is, you will add wounds like mine unto wounds like Văn’s? Is that not too much?”

“It is not,” said Jesus simply and with a power that rocked Anno.

“Yes, Lord,” he answered with piety. “But Lord, I ask you then, when the day comes that you confront him with the kinds of troubles that I had with political ideologies and earthly power, which endanger him, would you please do me a favour?”

“Let me hear.”

“When that day comes, let it be my feast day.”

“Do you mean the day you died or the next day, when the Church in pilgrimage honours you?”

“Either, Lord.”

“It can be your feast day honoured by those in pilgrimage. That will keep things a mystery a while longer. He knows well enough the day you died, but due to my providential presence in his encounters and memory he does not actually know your feast day on the ecclesiastical calendar.”

“I thought,” interjected Anno, “you said he loved me a lot.”

“I didn’t say it exactly like that, but it is as you say. Still, his mind pays attention to different things. It is normal for him. The calendar means to him almost nothing, until the day that he understands.”

“Very well, Lord.”

“He will meet his fight on that day, but for him your kind of suffering will be tied again to the kind that Văn knew before his arrest. They will intertwine on the day of your feast, and he will later be able to reflect on all the work that you have put into his life, along with Văn, Jan, and Juan.”

“I did not know that Văn had recruited others,” said Anno with astonishment.

“It’s his way,” Jesus answered with a smile.

“But when will this man put all this together, if Văn has been playing with his life like this?” asked Anno after a moment’s thought.

“When it is time,” said Jesus. “Always when it is time.”